


Put My Guns In the Ground

by saltsanford



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Blood and Gore, Bondage, Character Death, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Lemons, Limes, M/M, Mental Healing, Mental Health Issues, Night Terrors, Panic Attacks, Past Sexual Manipulation, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Manipulation, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Self-Hatred, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture, Untagged Prior Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-06-06 02:51:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 42
Words: 292,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6734932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltsanford/pseuds/saltsanford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>The thing about finding love in a war zone,</em> Tucker thinks, <em>is that you never know when it’s coming.</em><br/><em>The thing about finding love in a war zone, </em>Wash thinks, <em>is that you never know where it’s going.</em></p><p>The <em>thing</em> about love and sex in a warzone is that there are a <em>million</em> things that can go wrong, but—</p><p>As it turns out, there are also a million things that can go right.</p><p>When the Federalist and New Republic armies unite on Chorus in the face of a common enemy, they must first learn how to trust each other. Two former Freelancers, an A.I. fragment, and several Red and Blue soldiers have a thing or two to learn as well, about trust, and loyalty, and love.  In war, you make homes out of people despite knowing that they can be ripped away in the blink of an eye and-</p><p>The thing is, you protect your own with everything you've got.</p><p>[COMPLETE]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WELCOME EVERYONE! I am so excited to finally be posting this fic. Before we dive right in, I've got a few things I'd like to address. I promise I won't be posting disclaimers and comments on every chapter (that's not really my style) but since this is 1) a little more intense than what I've written in the past and, 2) gonna be a pretty lengthy fic, I want to get all this out of the way:
> 
>  **1\. This fic is rated explicit for graphic descriptions of sex and violence.** I assume you all saw the rating and are aware of this, but I'm saying it loud and clear this once because I will not be saying it again, nor will I be posting individual warnings at the beginning of each chapter. Please read the tag warnings, and be aware that I may update them as the fic goes on. 
> 
> 2\. Other fics of mine that you can consider to be in the same "verse" as this one: the _Miles to Go_ series, _A Field Guide to Hair Care in Wartime_ , _You Know This is a Thing You Do, Right?_ , _Ground Rules_ , and _Primum non nocere_. I will be referencing little moments from all of these. Please don't feel that you have to go read them! Just know that if I mention something and you're wondering if you missed it in the show, you probably didn't- most likely, it's a reference to an earlier fic.
> 
> 3\. I will be updating this fic on Tuesdays, with the possible occasional extra update, and the possible occasional delay in updates. 
> 
> 4\. THIS FIC IS NOT SUITABLE FOR ANYONE UNDER THE AGE OF 18.
> 
> A big thank you in advance to everyone who joins me for the long journey that this fic will inevitably be! I am very lucky to have THE nicest people reading my fics, and I appreciate every one of you. :) Feel free to swing by tumblr and say hi if that's your thing!
> 
> xoxo,  
> Salt

Tucker doesn’t scream when the knife goes in, but Epsilon does.

He _howls_ , a long unbroken _noooooooo_ that makes Tucker want to roll his eyes, it’s _that_ dramatic. The eye roll won’t quite come, though. Between the ungodly pain in his torso, Felix skulking in front of him, and Epsilon raging inside his skull, he doesn’t have room to focus on anything else.

 _< Oh my god Tucker, _Tucker _, are you okay, why didn’t you listen to me, I told you to stop, I told you to wait, oh that mercenary motherfucker I’m gonna kill him, I’m gonna rip him apart with my bare fucking hands, Tucker, don’t you dare fucking die, if you die I’m gonna kill you— >_

 _< Church, shut the fuck up!>_ Tucker sucks in a breath and tries to ignore Felix, who is still pacing and yammering away. _< Focus. Focus on the helmet cam!>_

_< Fuck the helmet cam! This is bullshit! Wash was right, you should’ve taken his stupid healing unit—>_

Tucker winces. _< Yeah. He’s gonna be pretty pissed at me.>_

 _< Pissed at _you _! He’s gonna KILL_ me! _>_

_< Church, just—come on! Play it cool!>_

_< Okay okay, I got it!>_

When Epsilon takes off to distribute the data to the tower— _< Tucker, I swear to god, you’d better still be alive when I get back here!>_— Tucker spends the next several minutes focusing on staying conscious. His friends are fine. They’re fine. They’re _right there_ , and he needs to get up, he needs to _help_ them. He tries to stand, but the pain that lances through his abdomen has him biting back a scream, and nope, standing is most definitely off the table.

Carolina must notice the way he flinches, because she opens up a direct line to his radio. _< Hold on, Tucker.>_ Her voice has the same quiet, reassuring quality that Wash’s does in a crisis, and Tucker holds onto it, listening to the even sound of her breath over the radio. Locus appears behind Felix’s shield at the same time that Church returns, and both of these things jolt Tucker back to a full consciousness.

< _Oh, good. >_ Epsilon doesn’t bother to disguise his relief. _< Alright, I distributed the data, so everyone on Chorus should know—>_

_< Wash.>_

He can feel Epsilon’s confusion. _< What?>_

 _< Wash,>_ Tucker thinks, a little deliriously. _< He’s not here. Locus is here, but he’s not. Church. Church, what does that mean?>_

Epsilon tries to mask his sudden realization and horror, but he isn’t quite fast enough. A wave of grief pulses through Tucker so powerfully it almost knocks him over. Epsilon jolts in alarm. _< Hey, we don’t know what happened yet, you gotta stay with me- Tucker! Don’t you dare let those fucking mercenaries win this!>_

Tucker rallies at these words, even though he’s not sure who exactly Epsilon is reassuring, gritting his teeth and forcing himself to stop scanning his friends. His _friends_ , all there, except for Wash. _Don’t you dare let them see you fall,_ he tells himself sharply, and he doesn’t, he doesn’t, not until Locus turns his back. Even then, it’s a small thing, his sword fizzling out of existence as he braces himself on one hand.

_< No no no, Tucker, NO! Stay with me!>_

He would. He _should_.  His friends are right there and Wash might not yet be dead, but his bones are so very heavy and—

There is a moment, between one slow blink and the next, that Tucker thinks of three things:

Running around in the first rainstorm Blood Gulch had seen in years, all thoughts of armor and color-coded teams forgotten. Junior, sleeping and serene, curled up next to him in the sand. Wash, laughing back at the crash site, the dying red sunlight caught in his hair.

The memories are bright and bold, searing themselves onto the back of Tucker’s eyelids, but there is no more time to make sense of them.

Tucker falls.


	2. Chapter 2

**PART ONE**

_Mama, take this badge off of me_  
_I can't use it anymore_  
_It's getting dark, much too dark to see_  
_Feel I'm knocking on heaven's door_

* * *

 

When Agent Washington wakes up, it is to a room filled with buzzing, beeping and breathing.

Although he has not woken up in this particular room before, he knows those sounds. Those beeps. He has only ever heard them when he was injured, or sick, or—

_Article Twelve—_

—something.

Wash wakes up slowly, piecing together the memories. He remembers a battle at the tower, fighting with Locus, collapsing in the dirt. He remembers making his way back to his team, remembers Carolina slinging his arm over her shoulders to help him walk, saying, “Wash, there’s something…”

He remembers stumbling over to where Tucker was lying on the ground, remembers Epsilon flitting around their heads like a firefly, remembers Dr. Grey snapping at them all to get back. Remembers kneeling next to Tucker’s makeshift stretcher on the plane, remembers being unaware of the fact that he was holding Tucker’s hand until one of the cadets had almost knocked him out of the way. Remembers Tucker’s eyelids cracking open—he was conscious, Wash remembers that, he was _awake_ and talking and then—what?

Wash frowns. He vaguely recalls the tilt and sway of the ship until…had he passed out? Judging by the IV in his arm, he must have. Adrenaline pumps through him, and he shoots up in bed—or tries to, at least. A sharp pain sears across his ribs, and he falls back with a yelp.

“Jesus! Take it easy!”

Wash glances around frantically until his eyes land on Epsilon a few feet away. The sight of the A.I. does absolutely nothing to reassure him. “Epsilon? Where are we? What—?”

“Relax. Everything’s fine, we’re in the capital. Armonia. With the _good_ guys,” he emphasizes, when Wash continues to stare at him blankly.

“But…” Wash frowns, squinting in the dark, until he realizes that Epsilon is sitting cross-legged on Tucker’s chest. “Tucker—is he?”

“He’s fine,” Epsilon says quickly. “Well. He’s really not, but he will be. Surgery was a little dicey, but he pulled through.”

“How long has he been out?”

“You guys were _both_ out for over a day. Locus did a number on you.”

Wash nods, bringing a hand to his ribs. Cracked _again_ , by the feel of them. His head is pounding something awful, too. “Where’s Carolina?”

“Sleeping. Finally.” Epsilon shakes his head. “She and the guys just left not that long ago. I had to reassure them like a _billion_ times that I wouldn’t let either of you die in your sleep.”

“But…how are you here, then?”

“Oh…” Epsilon shifts, suddenly uncomfortable. “I’m, uh. Still wired to Tucker’s implants. I wanted to…I mean…it just seemed like a good idea to monitor him. _And_ you. From over here! From…across the room. Just, you know. Scans and stuff. To make sure you don’t, like, have a seizure. Or something.”

“I see.”

The silence that falls between them is awkward and cold, and Wash remembers another detail from the tower: how he’d fallen to his knees next to Tucker in the dirt, looked up at Epsilon and said, “This is _your_ fault.”

Epsilon sighs, breaking the silence. “Look—”

“You were supposed to account for his reaction time,” Wash says. “That was the _only_ reason that I agreed to keep the healing unit. The _only_ reason.”

“I _know_ that—”

“You said that you could handle the helmet cam _and_ keep an eye on Tucker. You said—”

“This whole plan was Tucker’s idea!”

“Are you seriously blaming _Tucker_ here?”

“Of course not!”

“Because it sounds like—”

“Jesus Christ, would you shut _up_ and listen to me for _one_ second?”

They glare at each other for a moment before Wash folds his arms over his chest. “Fine. Explain.”

“Tucker didn’t _listen_ to me!” Epsilon snaps. “I saw what was about to happen and I _told_ him to stop, but…Look. There was a moment where it looked like the guys and Carolina were in trouble. You _know_ what Tucker’s like! He started running over to them and I couldn’t stop him, not without…you know.

 _Taking control._ There’s a part of Wash that wants to tell Epsilon he _should_ have taken control if it meant saving Tucker, but he doesn’t mean it, not really. He _does_ mean it when he says, “The helmet cam wasn’t more important than Tucker’s _life_.”

“Do you think I gave two flying _fucks_ about the helmet cam? No! But Tucker did. _He_ did. It was _his_ stupid plan, and _his_ stupid helmet cam, and if he had…if he had…look, it all would’ve been for nothing if we hadn’t gotten that message out and you _know_ it.”

Wash says nothing, just shakes his head, and Epsilon matches him glare for glare.

“I _know_ that I fucked this up,” Epsilon continues, his avatar fizzling for a moment. “Jesus, Wash, _do you think that I don’t know that?_ You think I’m not over here doing the same goddamn thing you are?  Thinking of _every possible scenario?_ ”

“I can’t lose these guys,” Wash says abruptly, because it’s true, because he _can’t_ , because Epsilon probably knows it anyway, because he can’t think about the _scenarios,_ because—

“Well, shit Wash. Neither can I.”

Wash stares at the ceiling and tries to ignore Epsilon fidgeting in his peripheral. “We made it again,” Epsilon says finally. “Pulled it off.”

Wash sighs, glancing over at Tucker’s still form. “I just hope we’re out of the woods.

They are not out of the woods.

* * *

“What do you _mean,_ he has a fever?”

“Well, generally, when one has a fever, it means that their body temperature—Agent Washington! You are still on bed rest!”

Wash ignores Dr. Grey and limps over to Tucker’s bed. The short distance takes way more effort than it should, which he also ignores. He puts a hand on Tucker’s forehead. “He’s too warm,” he informs Dr. Grey.

Epsilon heaves a sigh. “Yeah, that’s what she just _said,_ genius,” he says, annoyed, but his tone doesn’t mask the anxious way he’s pacing across Tucker’s chest.

“But…” Wash frowns, looking at Dr. Grey almost pleadingly. “But I thought he was going to be fine. You said he was going to be _fine_.”

“And odds are he _will_ be—”

“Odds are? _Odds_ are?”

“Wash. What are you doing out of bed?” 

Wash turns to see Carolina striding across the infirmary. “Tucker has a fever,” he tells her, and has to take a moment to remind himself that Carolina isn’t going to be able to fix this.

Carolina frowns at Dr. Grey. “How can he have a fever? You said there wasn’t any infection—”

“Tucker’s wounds are infected?” Simmons is hovering in the doorway, and takes a hesitant step inside when they all turn to face him. “But isn’t that bad?”

“A flesh-eating virus?” Sarge pokes his head around the corner. “What kind of nefarious organisms does this planet hold?”

“No, there’s no infection—there’s no _virus_ —”

“There’s a virus going around?” Grif’s alarmed voice sounds from around the corner, and he shoves his way past Simmons and Sarge to stand at the foot of Tucker’s bed. “Huh. He looks like shit. What kind of virus is it?”

“There IS no virus!” 

“His wounds are _infected,_ Grif,” Simmons snaps. “Honestly—”

“Everyone shut up!” Dr. Grey shrieks, and they all fall silent, wincing. “Well. This _is_ a case of too many cooks in the kitchen, now isn’t it?”

“But none of us are cooks,” says Caboose earnestly, who has just barreled into the room as well. “Well, Tucker is a good cook. Don’t tell him I said that.”

“ _Any_ way,” mutters Grif, and Dr. Grey claps her hands together.

“Now. Captain Tucker here has a fever. It’s probably just a _teensy_ little thing that I can fix in a jiffy, but I need all of you to leave.”

“Why?” Simmons says sulkily. “Wash gets to stay—”

“Agent Washington is recovering from a whole _busload_ of super-fun injuries.”

Carolina wastes no time marshaling Wash back into bed at these words, and Dr. Grey wastes no time marshaling the rest out of the room. “You too,” she says to Carolina. “If there’s an update, you’ll be the first to know.”

She slams the door in Carolina’s snarling face.

* * *

 

By the time evening falls, Caboose has managed to find a way back into the infirmary. He unseals his helmet and perches gingerly on the side of Wash’s bed. There’s a caution and uncertainty in his movements that confuses Wash until Caboose takes a deep breath. “I would like to give you a hug, Agent Washington.”

“Oh,” Wash says, and clears his throat. “Um. Well…I guess…that’s…”

“But Dr. Grey says that if I hug you, I might break you.”

“I don’t think you’re going to break me, Caboose.”

“She says I hug too hard.”

Wash thinks that Dr. Grey has a point, but Caboose looks so dejected at the prospect that Wash can’t quite bring himself to agree. “I…I like your hugs, Caboose.”

Caboose’s whole face brightens. “You do?”

“Sure I do. But,” he adds hastily, as Caboose makes a lunging motion. “But, uh. My ribs are still healing, so…tell you what. As soon as I’m out of the infirmary, you can give me the biggest hug you want. Okay?”

“Okay,” Caboose says happily, and glances over at Tucker. “Can I hug Tucker, too?”

“Of course you can,” Wash says, biting his lips to keep from grinning. “Tucker loves hugs.”

As if on cue, there’s a groan from the other side of the room. Caboose almost falls off the bed in his haste to hover over Tucker, and Wash isn’t far behind.

Tucker’s eyes finally crack open, flitting around the room before they zero on Wash’s face. “Wash?” he croaks, blinking.

Caboose promptly knocks Wash out of the way. “Tucker! You are awake!”

“Oh, god. Wait, no I’m not. Let me go back to sleep.”

Dr. Grey appears behind them so quickly that Wash has to physically stop himself from reacting. She shoulders Wash and Caboose out of the way, and Wash is begrudgingly impressed by the force behind her shoulder check. “’Scuse me, Doctor coming through,” she says cheerfully, and fiddles with Tucker’s monitors. “Captain Tucker? How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” he mumbles. “W’happened?”

Epsilon materializes over Dr. Grey’s shoulder, arms folded. “You got stabbed, that’s what. Nice going.”

Tucker falls silent, contemplating this. Wash sees the exact moment Tucker pieces it all together, but is too slow to prevent him from shooting up in bed. Tucker gasps, falling back and clutching his stomach, and Epsilon shoots a look at Wash as if it’s _his_ fault. “What is it with you two and not realizing you have to fucking _take it easy_ after an injury?”

“Wash,” Tucker says, waving an arm around as if he’s looking for him. Wash steps up on his other side, keeping a careful distance away from Dr. Grey. “Is everyone okay? Did we do it?”

“Everyone’s fine,” Wash tells him. “They’re _all_ fine. Your plan worked, we got the information out to everyone. You were stabbed, and you caught a fever, but you’re going to be okay.”

He glances at Dr. Grey for confirmation, and she nods. “You’ll be fine as long as you, in the words of your little A.I. friend, take it easy,” she says.

“ _Little A.I. friend?_ ” Epsilon mutters, but is quickly drowned out by Caboose’s shout of joy.

“Oh! Oh! Tucker! I will find us some board games we can play!” Caboose claps Tucker so hard on the shoulder that Dr. Grey looks within seconds of body checking him again, but Caboose is out the door in a flash.

“Jesus,” mutters Tucker, his eyelids already fluttering closed again. “I’m gonna pretend to be asleep next time he comes back in.”

Tucker does, in fact, spend the rest of the day sleeping, and Wash has to recount their brief conversation with Carolina, then Grif and Simmons, then Donut as they all wander in throughout the afternoon. By the time Sarge barges in, he is thoroughly sick of telling the story.

“He’s fine, Sarge,” he says tiredly, as Sarge examines Tucker’s monitors.

“Hmph,” Sarge grunts in response.

Dr. Grey materializes out of seemingly nowhere to bat his hands away. “Now now, Colonel. No touching!”

Sarge looks at her appraisingly. “I knew we had nothing to worry about with you on the case,” he says gruffly. “Never seen hands quite like yours before.

“Weak, Sarge,” Tucker groans from the bed, and Wash finds himself exchanging a glance with _Epsilon_ , of all people, who’s hovering over the nightstand in between their beds.

“Surgeon’s hands!” Sarge blusters, before he storms out of the room.

Dr. Grey glares at Tucker, but finding his eyes still closed, glares at Wash instead. “What?” he asks defensively, and she huffs her way out of the room as well.

“Call me if he starts bleeding through his bandages!” she yells as the door shuts.

“What the fuck was that?” Tucker mumbles, cracking an eye open.

Wash sighs. “You don’t want to know. I had to listen to those two flirting the entire time we were with the Feds.”

“Nice,” Tucker says, already starting to drift off again. “Glad to see Sarge is getting some tail, the sly old dog.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Tucker,” Epsilon says, exasperated.

But Tucker’s looking at Wash now, fighting to keep his eyes open once more. He half lifts a hand before letting it fall, and Wash finds himself doing the same thing without really knowing why. “You’re okay though, right?” Tucker mumbles, his voice thick with sleep. “You’re really okay?”

Wash’s hand raises and falls once more, and he clenches it in the bed sheets. “I’m really okay.”

“Everyone’s okay?”

“Everyone’s okay,” says Wash, and Tucker’s face relaxes, his bones melting into the mattress as he drifts off.

* * *

 

 Tucker is noticeably better in the morning, all traces of his fever gone. A group of four soldiers hover by the door around mid-morning, trying to peer in, but Dr. Grey shoos them all away. “No more visitors,” she says, and Wash suspects she’s still irritated about Tucker scaring off Sarge earlier. Tucker rolls his eyes at Wash.

“The Lieutenants,” he says. “I’ll introduce you to them all later.”

The next several days are much of the same. Tucker spends most of his time sleeping. Wash and Epsilon spend most of their time sitting in a begrudging silence. Caboose does indeed find some obscure board game that no one seems to know how to play, but they play it anyway, the four members of Blue Team, with Caboose making up increasingly ridiculous rules and Epsilon shrieking about the absurdity of said rules. Wash is finally given permission to change out of the uncomfortable hospital gown into sweats and a t-shirt, but Dr. Grey laughs her way out of the room when Wash inquiries about his armor. Tucker whines so enthusiastically about the unfairness of the fact that “Wash gets to lounge around in pajamas while I’m stuck wearing a paper dress, and not even a sexy one,” that Dr. Grey finally throws up her hands and helps him into something more comfortable as well.

“But if I have to operate quickly, I’m ripping this shirt right open,” she says cheerfully.

“That’s okay baby, I like the enthusiasm,” Tucker responds without missing a beat, and Wash wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he’s never been so happy to hear one of Tucker’s stupid come-ons. Tucker’s stupid come-ons mean that he is thinking of other things; that he is really and truly getting better.

Wash wakes up one morning to find Tucker sitting cross-legged in his own bed, datapad in hand, deep in conversation with Epsilon. The change in him his astounding: his eyes are bright, the lines of his body strong. Dr. Grey is nowhere to be seen.

“How are you feeling?” Wash yawns, pushing himself to a sit.

To his surprise, Tucker says nothing, just grunts in response. Upon closer inspection, Tucker’s healing body is not the only thing that has changed from days’ prior—his whole demeanor is stiff and tense, and he’s refusing to meet Wash’s eye. It’s nothing like the sleepy, sanguine thing that’s settled itself in their room since their arrival here, a thing that’s equal parts morphine and exhaustion and a giddy, delirious joy that they are all _alive._

“Tucker?”

“I’m mad at you.”

Wash looks over at Epsilon, who shrugs almost apologetically. “I’m sorry, _what?_ ”

“I _said,_ I’m mad at you,” Tucker repeats. He still won’t look at Wash. “And _generally_ , people don’t speak to the assholes that they’re mad at.”

“Okay,” Wash says slowly. “I mean, if they’re five years old, then yeah, that sounds about right.”

Tucker whips around to glower at him, and Wash is taken aback by the genuine anger in his eyes. “This isn’t funny, Wash!”

Wash holds up his hands. “Alright, alright. Look, why don’t you tell me what you’re so upset about?”

“If you don’t know, then I don’t want to talk about it,” Tucker says stiffly.

Epsilon throws up his arms. “Oh, my god. I’m logging off now.”

“No you’re not,” Tucker snaps. “Then I’ll have no one to talk to. It’s really fucking boring in this infirmary. Don’t understand why I can’t even walk around—”

“That would be because you got stabbed, Tucker,” Wash says. Tucker ignores him. “ _And,_ since we’re _apparently_ about to have an argument, I’d like to point out that your injury wouldn’t have been so bad if you’d taken my healing unit like I wanted you to—”

Tucker slams his datapad down onto the mattress, glaring fiercely at Wash again. “If I had, then you’d probably be dead, Wash!”

Wash blinks at him, bewildered. “I wouldn’t have been _dead,_ I just got banged up a little bit—”

“Yeah, by a total sociopath who clearly has it out for you!”

“Tucker—”

“I _thought_ you were dead.” Tucker is staring determinedly at the ceiling now, while Epsilon looks around uncomfortably. “When Locus came back without you. I thought you were _dead_.”

“Tucker,” Wash says quietly. “I thought you were dead, too. When I came back—when I saw you…” he stops and clears his throat, and Tucker turns to him sharply.

“Yeah, okay, I’m _really_ gonna go now,” Epsilon mutters, and vanishes without further comment.

“When I came over that ledge and saw you on the ground,” Wash continues, “I thought that you hadn’t made it. That we’d lost the day.”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “We wouldn’t have lost the day—the plan _worked_ , didn’t it?"

“The plan wouldn’t have _worked_ ,” Wash says through gritted teeth, “if you had _died._ ”

“Hey, that plan saved an entire planet, and if what that takes is a little sacrifice—”

 _“I don’t give a damn about the planet!”_ The anger courses through Wash with no warning and overwhelming intensity. He’s on his feet without realizing that he’d intended to stand, ignoring the throbbing pain in his ribs. “I know _you_ do, but I don’t! I _don’t!_ I don’t _know_ these people and I’m not going to stand around and watch you risk your life for them—”

“Don’t you fucking tell me what to goddamn do, Washington! I can risk my life for whoever the fuck I want! I’m a fucking _Captain_ now, if you haven’t heard—you’re not the _boss of me_ anymore—”

“I’m not trying to be the boss of you! I’m trying to keep you from taking unnecessary risks!”

“ _Oh!_ Oh, but it’s okay for _you_ to do risky things with your life?” Tucker is matching Wash scowl for scowl, but there’s something triumphant in his eyes as well, some ill-disguised pleasure that he’s gotten Wash to scream right back.

“I don’t—” Wash rakes a hand through his hair. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Oh, my _God._ ” Tucker swings his legs to the edge of the bed so that he can glare at Wash more effectively. “Are you fucking _kidding_ me right now?”

“No, I’m not _kidding_ you—”

“You looked _right_ at me.”

“I—what?” Wash stops pacing for a moment, staring at Tucker in confusion. Tucker’s got his hands balled into fists, jaw clenched furiously.

“When you told Freckles to shake,” Tucker says lowly. “You looked. Right. _At_ me. I was right there, and you were on your feet, and it would’ve taken me _two seconds_ to come over and _help_ you—”

“You don’t know that!”

_“Yes I fucking do!”_

Tucker yells it so loudly that footsteps passing outside the hallway falter. “Yes, I fucking do,” he says again, lowering his voice. “I _do._ But god forbid you let a day go by where you’re not careless with your own life—”

Wash jerks back. “I’m _not_ careless with my life.”

“ _Yes,_ you are! You’d rather risk getting tortured by some fucking nut job than let people help you!”

Something about the way Tucker phrases this gets under his skin. “That’s not—” Wash takes a deep breath before looking Tucker square in the face. “I needed to know that you and Caboose were safe.”

Tucker scoffs, turning away, and Wash steps directly into his line of vision. “I will never apologize for saving your life, so if that’s what you’re going for here—”

“You still don’t _get it!_ ” Tucker bursts out, and he tries to stand, fiddling with the IV still in his arm.

“Tucker—” Wash holds out a hand to stop him, and Tucker bats it away.

“What did I just say? _Don’t tell me what to do_! If you get to pace around the room dramatically, then so do I!”

Wash winces as Tucker stumbles back onto the bed with a gasp, and he takes a seat on his own bed again, giving them the much needed space. “There. I’m sitting. _Now,_ will you take it easy? You’re gonna pull your stitches.”

“I don’t fucking _care_ about my stitches,” Tucker spits.

“Well, I do.”

They glare at each other. Wash is surprised that no one has come storming into their room yet. “Tucker. Tell me what I still don’t get.”

Tucker huffs, glaring at a point somewhere over Wash’s left shoulder. “We thought you were being tortured,” he says.

“What?”

“I know you heard what I just said, don’t act fucking stupid!” Tucker snaps, flaring again immediately. “Jesus jumped up _Christ_ —”

“Alright, alright!”

Tucker breathes heavily through his nose until he’s satisfied that Wash isn’t going to interrupt. “After you oh-so- _heroically_ collapsed that wall. We—Grif, Simmons, Caboose and I—thought you guys were in serious trouble. The things that _Felix_ —” he spits out the name “—told us about Locus and his douchey friends…they didn’t sound good.”

Wash stays silent and waits for Tucker to continue.

“ _Tortured,_ ” Tucker repeats.

“Okay,” Wash says slowly. He can’t help but feel that he’s still missing something, and judging by the way Tucker’s eyes are boring holes into him, Tucker clearly thinks so too. “Tucker—”

“I got two people killed,” Tucker says. “On a mission. I was following a lead to where you guys were, and…two men got killed in the process. It was my fault.”

There’s a haunted look in Tucker’s eyes that tells Wash he still isn’t past it. “I’m sorry.”

Apparently, this is the wrong thing to say, because Tucker starts yelling again. “Don’t fucking apologize! I don’t want to hear you say you’re sorry ever again!”

“Tucker—”

“And don’t say my name, either!”

Wash is started to get frustrated now. “Well, what the hell do you want from me?”

“I want you to _get it!_ ”

“Get _what?!_ ”

Tucker pulls at his dreads with a growl, flopping dramatically back down on the bed ( _which can’t be good for his stitches_ , Wash notes with disapproval) to stare at the ceiling. “I thought you were being tortured.”

“So you’ve said…”

“ _I thought you were being tortured,_ ” Tucker continues loudly, ignoring Wash, “and I couldn’t…I couldn’t fucking _think straight._ I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t get any goddamn sleep because all I kept thinking of, all night, was how you don’t sleep on a _good_ day, and how you were probably having the shittiest nightmares ever in some torture dungeon, and we weren’t…I wasn’t…”

Wash holds his breath, unwilling to move or make a sound.

“There,” Tucker says finally. “ _I. Wasn’t. There._ ”

Silence.

“And then,” Tucker continues furiously, sitting up. “We meet up again, find you guys like, all whole and shit, and what’s the first thing you do?”

He seems to be waiting for Wash to speak, but Wash finds himself slightly terrified of giving the wrong answer. “Um—”

“You try to sacrifice yourself heroically again!” Tucker flops sideways back down on the bed, legs hanging off the side, and deepens his voice. “There’s a fourth option! Carolina and I will handle the bad guys, and the rest of you can fuck off!”

“That’s not—” Wash can’t keep quiet any longer. “That’s not what I meant and you _know_ it!”

“That’s exactly what you meant!”

“It had nothing to do with you guys as fighters—I didn’t want any of you to get hurt in a war that isn’t yours!”

“It isn’t your war, either!” Tucker shouts. He’s still yelling at the ceiling. “You _just_ said that you didn’t give two flying fucks about this planet! Well, _I do!_ And at least my plan actually had a chance of working, unlike the crock of shit you pulled out of your ass.”

“That isn’t—”

“And guess what? My fucking plan _did_ work, and you just have your panties in a fucking knot because I got wounded—well, you know what, Wash? That’s what happens in war! People get hurt!”

“You’re not _people,_ ” Wash grits out. “You’re my team. You’re my…friend.”

“So, what? That makes me more important than a whole fucking planet?”

Wash doesn’t have to think about it. “Yes.”

Tucker sighs loudly. “That’s fucked up, Wash.”

“I don’t care.”

“So, you’re willing to sacrifice yourself—and Epsilon, and Carolina—but not me? Or Caboose? Or the Reds?”

“Well…that’s not what…”

“That’s exactly what you tried to do! Jesus _Christ_ Wash, you’ve got some fucked up priorities.”

Tucker falls silent for nearly a minute, and when he speaks again, his voice is low and hurt. “Your plan was shitty, and mine wasn’t, and it _worked_ , and it saved the fucking _day._ ”

“I know it did,” Wash says, surprised. “Is that what this is about?”

Tucker groans, dragging a pillow over his face. “No, that’s not what it's about! Haven’t you been listening to me? It’s about _you_ , and this fucking _thing_ you do where you’re careless with your stupid life and don’t give a fuck about how it affects other people!”

“Okay, okay,” Wash says hastily.

Tucker whips the pillow away and glares at him. “I _really_ need you to get that, dude.”

“Okay, okay, I…get it.”

Tucker snorts, turning to glare at the ceiling once more, and Wash can tell he didn’t buy it for a second. “Whatever.”

“Still, though,” Wash continues, because it’s important that Tucker understand this, “I’m not denying that it was a good plan. I’m proud of you.”

“You are?”

Wash sighs. “Tucker, look at me.”

Tucker doesn’t look at him, just remains flopped on his bed, staring unblinkingly at the ceiling. Wash hesitates, then gets up, sitting next to Tucker. “I may have fucked up priorities,” he says quietly, “and I may want nothing more than to get all of us off this planet.”

Tucker snorts again, and Wash pretends he doesn’t see the bright sheen covering his eyes. “But,” he continues. “If this is important to you guys, then you have my support.”

“Really?”

Wash hesitates, then stretches on his back to lay sideways next to Tucker, hoping it might startle him into looking meeting his gaze. “Really.”

It works. Tucker sniffs loudly and tilts his head to look at Wash, eyes bright and furious and unyielding. “Okay, ‘cause half the people in this army are like, fifteen, and I just think it’s really unfair, and I know we’re not the best soldiers, but I think we could help, and if _we_ could help, then just think what you and Carolina could do.”

“Looks like you guys have been doing just fine without us,” Wash says, smiling a little. “But you won’t have to do it alone. Not anymore.”

“Promise me something,” Tucker says abruptly.

“Okay.”

He looks a little suspicious at the ease of Wash’s answer. “We’re a team, right? That’s what you’re always fucking _saying,_ anyway.”

“Of course we are.”

“Okay, then. You have to fucking treat us like a team. No more trying to keep us out of the line of fire. No more self-sacrificial bullshit.”

Wash nods. “That’s fair.”

“I mean it,” Tucker says, his voice fierce again. “If we’re on a mission or something, and you’re in trouble, you have to fucking _radio me_ so that I can come _help you._ ”

Wash is used to the way that memories slam into him, removing him unforgivingly from the present. This one, though, comes slow and sorrowful: another infirmary, another teammate. _You lie. You’re a liar. You say you’re fine when you’re not. You say you don’t need backup when you do._

_You have to radio me when you need help. It’s the only way this works._

Maine’s voice grumbles through his skull from far beyond the grave. For him, and for _Tucker_ , Wash thinks it might be time to listen.

“Promise,” he says, and holds out his hand. Tucker rolls his eyes, but shakes it. “I never meant to imply that you guys weren’t capable, you know,” he says. “I just…I don’t want to see you hurt.”

“I know,” Tucker says with a sigh. “I know you don’t. But still. If you pull any bullshit like that ever again, I will kill you myself. Deal?”

There’s an unshed tear clinging to Tucker’s eyelashes, and Wash has to quash down a sudden and insane urge to brush it away. He clenches his fist and focuses on Tucker, on the promise that he needs to make.

“Deal.”

Tucker grins, and in that moment, Wash realizes that he can’t just say the words and not think of their consequences.

He has to mean them.

He has to _change._


	3. Chapter 3

The thing about getting injured in a war, Tucker thinks, is that it’s _really_ fucking boring.

It was kind of nice at first, once he was sure he wasn’t about to die and all. There’d been an awful lot of people sneaking into his room to look at him like he was a goddamned hero. Which he _was,_ of course. He’d really played up the wounded soldier card and he was pretty certain it was going to get him a lot of tail. Okay, Caboose had been extra clingy, and Grif had stolen his jello cup twice now, but Sarge had rigged his morphine drip so that he slept soundly, and Wash had been all worried and clench-jawed in a way that was somehow not annoying after they’d had their stupid heart to heart and gotten all _emotional_ and shit.

Now, though, Tucker doesn’t think he can stand lying in this bed for another second. _It isn’t fair,_ he thinks morosely. Wash had been almost as fucked up as him, but _he_ was now allowed out of the infirmary with the caveat of overnight observations for the next few days. Tucker isn’t sure why he’d even bothered leaving. Wash had already popped back in four times—it wasn’t even noon—clearly convinced that Tucker was going to bleed out and no one would notice. Which was _absurd._ He wasn’t going to die bleeding out; he was going to die of _boredom._

_< Oh my god, are you ever gonna stop feeling sorry for yourself?>_

Epsilon sounds nearly as cranky as Tucker feels, but Tucker will not be out-sulked. “Come out here. I hate talking to you when I can’t see you, I know you know that.” He gestures towards the monitor on his bedside table that Caboose had scrounged up from God-knows-where. "This is here for a reason, you know. So I can _see you._ "

_< Yeah well, too bad.>_

“Church,” he whines. “Come _on._ I’m _sooo_ fucking bored. Tell me a story or something.”

Epsilon materializes on Tucker’s knee, folding his arms in exaggerated annoyance. “Tell you a _story?_ What am I, your nurse?”

“Uh, why the fuck _else_ are you camped out in my head?”

“In case you’ve forgotten,” Epsilon says, in the most condescending voice Tucker’s ever heard, “you got stabbed and _someone_ needs to keep an eye on your stupid ass.”

Tucker grunts. “They don’t seem too worried anymore. No one’s been in here to poke and prod at me all goddamn day.”

“Yeah, that’s ‘cause _I’m_ here, idiot.”

“Huh?”

“ _To keep an eye on you_ ,” Epsilon emphasizes. “Make sure you don’t croak.”

“What are you gonna do if that starts to happen?” Tucker asks sarcastically. “Run for help?”

“Actually, I’m going to broadcast an SOS onto every computer on this goddamn planet until every doctor gets their ass in here,” Epsilon says calmly. “But, you know. Maybe I’ll run for help while I’m at it.”

He still sounds like a cocky little shit, but Tucker gets the feeling that he’s not joking. Not in the slightest. He remembers the way Church screamed when the knife slid into his stomach— _so neat, so sharp, the blood ribboning out onto the ground, Felix’s voice filling his ears, and Wash hadn’t come back, hadn’t—_ Tucker forces his thoughts away. Epsilon ignores the increased pattering of his heart, for which Tucker is grateful, but of course can’t resist throwing his two cents out there.

“That was _way_ too fucking close, Tucker.”

It has to be at least the seven hundredth time he’s expressed this sentiment, and Tucker sighs loudly. “I _knooow_.”

“I’m just _saying._ You can’t drop your guard like that when—”

“I _know!_ ” Tucker bounces his fist against the mattress restlessly. “I fucking know that. You really think I don’t? I just…”

“Panicked?”

So much for ignoring Tucker’s anxiety. “Look, how the fuck would _you_ know, anyway? You’re not a combat assist A.I.—”

“Oh, and _you_ know that from your extensive experience with A.I.?”

Tucker opens his mouth reply scathingly, but pauses. “Are you?”

“Well, not exactly, but they weren’t pairing us up with the Freelancers to do desk work, I can tell you that much.”

Epsilon’s voice goes even sulkier the way it always does when Freelancer comes up, but Tucker knows better than to ask for details. “I know it was close, okay? Still don’t need you to lecture me on combat.”

Epsilon shrugs. “I’m sure Carolina will take care of that all on her own.”

Tucker straightens in alarm. “You wouldn’t. If you fucking _tell on me_ —”

“I don’t _have_ to. I _guarantee_ you she’s already got one hell of a lecture prepared.”

“How do you know?!”

“We share a head, remember? She’s always griping about how you guys have the shittiest training ever.”

“Hey,” Tucker says, offended, “we’ve gotten by this long, haven’t we?”

“Exactly. Imagine how terrifying you would all be if you _actually_ trained.” Epsilon freezes in horror. “Oh, god. I sound like her, don’t I?’

“Starting to, yeah.”

“Fucking _Christ_.” Epsilon falls silent for a while, seemingly to reflect on this disturbing similarity, and Tucker goes back to thinking about how bored he is. “I should’ve—” Epsilon starts, then cuts himself off. “Look. I should’ve—at the tower—I should’ve…”

Tucker sighs. “Are we about to have a moment?”

“Should’ve been faster,” Epsilon mutters.

“You were plenty fast.” Tucker pauses, then grudgingly continues. “I didn’t listen. _Don’t_ tell Wash I said that. _Or_ Carolina. _Or_ Dr. Grey. Or _anyone_. Then I really will be in training for the rest of my life.”

“Yeah,” Epsilon mutters, but he doesn’t sound convinced.

“Now who’s feeling sorry for himself?” Tucker quips, then sighs again when Epsilon’s presence continues to sit like a stone in his skull. “Look, dude. There wasn’t anything you could’ve done, okay? _I didn’t listen._ I guess I’m…sorry. For that. Or whatever.”

Epsilon looks at him sharply. “Sorry? Why?”

Tucker shifts uncomfortably. “You’re in my head, aren’t you? Can’t you fucking tell? Don’t make me spell this shit out.”

When Epsilon continues to look confused, Tucker lets his mind go loose and heavy. He thinks of Wash, and Tex, and failure, and Wyoming’s time distortion unit, and hopes Epsilon won’t ask him to elaborate because he couldn’t explain it if he tried.

Epsilon seems to get it, though, and his presence lifts slightly. He doesn’t say sorry again, and neither does Tucker, but the atmosphere shifts and Tucker thinks this isn’t all bad, thinks Freelancer might have been onto something, before it all went to hell.

* * *

Unfortunately, Epsilon isn’t wrong about Carolina. About two hours after Wash comes to check on him, again, and bring him some ridiculous magazine he found on guns for some “ _light studying,_ ” and one hour after Dr. Grey gives him his antibiotics, and thirty minutes after Caboose comes in to tell him and Church exactly what he ate for lunch, Carolina makes her grand entrance.

Well, it’s less of a grand entrance and more like a terrifying execution of stealth—literally, one moment he’s cracking jokes with Epsilon and the next, Carolina is looming in his doorway in full armor—but it’s as grand an entrance as Tucker’s ever seen.

“We need to talk,” she says ominously, “about your training.”

Epsilon clears his throat pointedly, and Tucker sees her visor tilt in his direction before she straightens and makes an obvious attempt to soften her tone. “How are you feeling, Tucker?”

“Jesus Christ,” Tucker mutters.

“It appears that you are…healing well. I am glad.”

“Oh boy.”

“Captain Tucker.” Carolina pauses. “It’s… _Captain_ now, right?”

“Fuck _yeah_ it is.”

“Right. Captain Tucker. Your plan saved an entire planet. It—”

Tucker sighs. “Okay, okay. As much as I like hearing about what a goddamn hero I am, I think I’d like to get the lecture over with.”

“…fine.” Carolina takes a few more steps into his room, then another few, until she’s hovering over his bed.

“On second thought, _maaaybe_ some more hero worship wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world—”

“Tucker. _What were you thinking?_ ”

Tucker frowns. “What happened to _Captain_ Tucker?”

Carolina ignores him. “Your plan was a brilliant one, save for one key detail.”

“I’m waiting with baited breath.”

“ _You don’t know how to use that sword._ ”

“ _Hey!_ Yes I do!”

“Fine. You don’t know how to use it _well_ ,” Carolina amends.

Tucker sighs loudly. “I fail to see how that’s relevant.”

“You fail to see how that’s _relevant?_ Tucker, one of the key elements of your plan was holding Felix off _with your sword._ I seem to remember some ridiculous monologue about ‘The Sword Fight of the Century.’”

“Look, he pulled that knife out of _no_ where!”

“And you ran _right into it._ ”

Tucker huffs and folds his arms protectively over his midsection. “Get to the point.”

“The point,” says Carolina. “Is that if you insist on wielding that ridiculous sword in combat, you need to learn how to use it. Immediately.”

“But it wasn’t even a sword that Felix stabbed me with!” Tucker cries, frustrated. “It was a _knife_.”

“Swords. Knives. Things with blades, plasma or otherwise. You need to learn how to use _all of them_.”

“I know how to use them,” Tucker mutters, and Epsilon rolls his whole head.

“Oh, stop _whining._ ”

“Don’t talk to me about _whining,_ you—”

“Look,” Carolina interrupts loudly. Her voice softens somewhat when Tucker scowls at her. “I’m not saying you don’t have raw talent. I’m just saying that you’ve never had a chance to refine that talent. Imagine what you could do if you _actually_ trained.”

 _Shut up,_ Tucker tells Epsilon as the A.I. starts snickering inside his head. To Carolina, he says, “Look, I’m not sure what you think we were _doing_ while the two of you were off fucking around—”

Epsilon stops snickering immediately. “Oh, come on! I already said I was sorry for that!”

“—but TRAINING was pretty much the only goddamn thing we _were_ doing.” He frowns at Carolina. “I’m not dicking around here. I don’t want these kids to die, you know.”

“Then you need to be _better_. No, _stop_ interrupting me and listen to what I’m saying! You have the talent. You have the drive. You just need someone to teach you.”

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” Epsilon adds.

Tucker huffs. “Yeah? You got a master swordsman on this planet who’s gonna teach me?”

Carolina either completely misses his sarcasm or chooses to ignore it. “I’m still looking. There has to be _someone_ on this base who is good with a sword. I can help clean up your footwork, but you _do_ need a master. For now, though, you can start training knives with Wash.”

“What—with _Wash?_ You’re sentencing me to _more training_ with Wash?”

“Wash is excellent with knives,” Carolina says, undaunted, and Tucker tries to remember if he’s ever even seen Wash _use_ them. “His aim is near perfect, and his close quarters combat is—”

“Is fucking _shitty!_ Carolina! It’s a miracle Locus didn’t kill him—”

“And I will be helping Wash set _his_ training goals next,” she says fiercely. “Do you think you’re the only one who needs to develop their skill set?”

Tucker pauses. “So. I’m not the only one getting a lecture.”

“Sarge needs to learn not to be so careless with his ammo, Simmons has to keep a cooler head under pressure, Grif needs to use his size to his advantage, Caboose should be using his strength, and Wash…” her voice drops dangerously. “ _Wash_ needs to develop some sort of strategy for when he loses his weapons.”

Tucker feels marginally better at that. “However,” Carolina continues. “He _is_ excellent with knives. When he doesn’t lose them. So, until I can track down a swordsman, you will be training with Wash in the mornings.”

“Sucks to be you, dude,” Epsilon snickers, and Carolina rounds on him.

“And _you_ need to learn to keep your head in a crisis, and not panic every time one of your teammates sustains an injury.”

Epsilon sputters indignantly. “What— _low_ , C. Fucking _low._ ”

Her voice softens a little. “You boys did good. You completed your objective. I just…you could be better. I need you all to be _better_.”

Tucker’s tempted to argue the point further, but Epsilon whispers grudgingly, _She’s trying to take care of you guys. Just let her,_ so he relents. “Okay okay, _fine!_ ”

“Good. Rest up. We have a war to win.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He straightens up as she turns to leave. “Wait! Are you gonna yell at Wash next? Aw, come on, can I watch?”

“Goodbye, Captain Tucker,” she says, exasperated, and the door swings shut behind her.

* * *

The rest of the day passes slowly. Tucker gets a few more visitors, which he likes, because at least they give him something to do. He doesn’t even mind when Palomo stops by, because it’s better than dwelling on the reason he’s in this bed in the first place.

Epsilon doesn’t comment on the way Tucker goes quiet whenever he replays the stabbing in his mind, even though Tucker knows Epsilon can feel the sickeningly way his stomach swoops. Instead, he gets extra chatty, and Tucker wonders if this is the real reason he’s here. He suddenly doesn’t think his lack of nightmares since the tower is a coincidence.

Wash comes back in the early evening, and Tucker brightens at the sight of him walking through the door. “Oh, good, you’re back. I’m bored.”

Epsilon sighs. “And here I thought I was a winning conversationalist.”

“How was your first day of freedom?” Tucker asks, which Wash promptly ignores in favor of his own question.

“How are you feeling?” Wash asks, just like he’s been doing every time he walked into the room. As if Tucker’s going to drop dead at any moment.

“Jesus, when are gonna stop asking me that?”

“You’re not out of the woods yet,” Wash says darkly, and couples his words by dramatically unsheathing his weapons and placing them on his bedside table.

“Uh, are you expecting to be attacked tonight?”

“We’re in a war zone,” Wash says. “And seeing as how Dr. Grey wouldn’t let me put my _armor_ back on just yet, I didn’t have much of a choice.”

Tucker glances pointedly at the knives on the table. “She gave you your weapons back, though.”

“These aren’t _my_ knives. I got them from the armory.”

Tucker watches him adjust the knives on his table just so. His shoulders are high and tight, face drawn and unhappy. “That bad of a day, huh?”

“It was _fine,_ ” Wash snaps, and Tucker lets it go. Wash does a bit more unnecessary stomping around and rearranging of his weapons before he sits down on the edge of his bed and looks at Tucker. “So? _Are_ you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Did you read the magazine?”

“Yeah,” Tucker says. “Yeah. Good stuff in there.”

It’s a lie, the weapons magazine was three years old, but his words, bizarrely, seem to lift a bit of the tension out of Wash’s body.

“So, Carolina wants me to teach you how to use knives,” Wash says, and Tucker groans.

“Yep. One more goddamn thing I gotta learn.” He pauses, grinning. “Does that mean you got a lecture, too?”

“You could say that,” Wash says dryly. “Apparently she thinks my hand-to-hand skills need work.”

“She’s not wrong,” Tucker can’t resist adding.

Wash sighs. “I know. We’ve all got stuff we need to work on. Now, look, I don’t pretend to be an expert at knives, but I have a few tricks I could show you.”

“Yeeeeeeah, I _bet_ you do,” Tucker crows, and Epsilon makes a noise of disgust.

“Once you’re healed,” Wash continues loudly. “We’ll get started. I’m going to book us a section of the training room for us six days a week—”

“ _Six days a week?_ To learn how to use a fucking knife!?”

“It’s going to be more than just knife work, Tucker,” Wash says. “Eventually, we’ll have to find a swordsman for you, and we can always work on things like aiming and—”

“Hand to hand combat?”

Wash levels a glare at him. “And hand to hand combat.”

“’Kay. Long as we’re working on _your_ weaknesses, too.”

Wash rolls his eyes, suddenly superior. “Tucker, _please_. My worst sparring day _easily_ tops your best.”

“Oh, _really?_ We’ll see about that.”

“Have you become a martial arts master while I was gone?”

“I became a _Captain,_ didn’t I? Stranger things have happened.”

“True,” Wash concedes.

“Agent Washington!” They both turn to the door as Dr. Grey bounces in. “Well, you did come back! Seems like juuuuust yesterday I was chasing you _all_ over the Federalist compound trying to do a simple checkup, and now you can’t stay away from the infirmary!”

Tucker lifts an eyebrow as Wash’s cheeks darken. “What do you need, Doctor?”

“Let’s take a quick peek at those ribs, shall we? Off with the shirt.”

Wash lifts his shirt slowly, just enough for Dr. Grey to get a look at his side, and Tucker winces a little at the bruising still coloring his ribs. It’s faded to yellow, at least, but the sheer size of it is alarming. Tucker thinks it might be worse than the broken ribs he had after Sidewinder.

“How many times have you cracked your ribs, dude?” Tucker asks jokingly. “Is this your go-to injury or what?”

“Four,” Wash says absently, and Tucker stops grinning.

“ _Four?_ You’ve broken your ribs _four_ times?”

Wash blinks at him, confused. “Well, yeah.”

“Five,” says Epsilon absently.

Tucker winces as Wash freezes. “Excuse me?”

Epsilon apparently hasn’t realized he’s said anything odd yet, and continues. “There’s now, and apparently after Sidewinder, I wasn’t there for that, but there was also that one time in Freelancer when you and CT got all banged up—”

 _< Church, shut the fuck up!>_ Tucker hisses, as Wash’s face slowly turns stonier and stonier.

“And then that time in Basic when you took that nasty kick to the side, and then on your tour in…the…” Epsilon finally trails off as Tucker’s thoughts grow more insistent. “Oh. Uh. Fuck. My bad…”

“Are you finished?” Wash asks coldly. “Or is there any other personal information of mine you’d like to share with the class?”

 “Nope. I think I’m, uh, good. Yeah. Think I’m good. ‘Night everyone,” Epsilon says, and logs off so fast that it leaves Tucker reeling slightly.

Wash is still glaring at the place where Epsilon vanished, but he is at least distracted enough that Dr. Grey is able to finish her observation.

“Well that was awkward,” Tucker jokes as Dr. Grey runs a scanner over Wash’s torso.

Now Wash is glaring at _him_ , so Tucker gives it up. Wash throws back his covers and punches his pillow into a comfortable shape, then proceeds to lay down and glare at the ceiling for the remainder of Dr. Grey’s checkup. “You’re free to go in the morning, Washington,” she says cheerfully. “I’ll do one final checkup, but I think you’re healing nicely. Just take it easy for a few days!”

Wash grunts in acknowledgment as the door swings shut, and Tucker rolls his eyes a little. “Dude, chill.”

“I am.”

“You are not. You’re wound up as fuck. Wanna talk about it?”

That gets Wash to look over at him. “Talk about _what,_ Tucker?”

“About…you know…” Tucker sighs. “Never mind. So did you get to meet everyone today?”

“Yes….I mean…well, some of them.”

“ _Some_ of them?”

“I just…” Wash fidgets. “Look, Dr. Grey wouldn’t give me my armor, okay? I’m not about to go wandering around a foreign environment without armor. So…yes. Some of them.”

 _So, none of them,_ Tucker thinks, exasperated, but he lets it go. He listens to the sounds of Wash tossing and turning before drifting into a light doze, or at least pretending to. It wouldn’t surprise Tucker in the slightest if Wash hadn’t slept a wink since arriving in the capital.

There are still times when it seems that nothing has changed since Rockslide, since Wash was tense and tired and so utterly _done_. Moments where Tucker still catches him flinching at an unexpected touch, or sees his face go blank and expressionless. Moments where he is distant and short and angry, where Tucker realizes that he still has miles and miles to go.

But he thinks of the way Wash brought him that stupid magazine and told him it was so that he could _study_ , which was a lie, because all of the guns in that issue were out of date and he _knows_ that Wash knew that. He thinks of how Wash just wanted him to have something to do, because he knew Tucker was bored, but he didn’t know how to say it. He thinks of how far Wash has come, and of drinking beer on his birthday back at Rockslide, and of _protecting my friends,_ and the way he had laughed that one time when—

 _I thought of him,_ he realizes suddenly, the thought unfurling inside his sleepy mind like blue skies cut from clouds. _I thought of him._

Tucker straightens up in his bed, glancing over at Wash dozing in the bed a few feet away. “Holy shit,” he breathes.

Epsilon stirs. _< What’s up? You feel…weird.>_

_< Shut up for a second! I’m thinking.>_

_< Uh, okay?>_

But Epsilon does fall silent, watching Tucker’s thoughts play out. Tucker thinks again of the stabbing, but this time, he traces the memory further: the moment after he’d fallen into the dirt, right before everything had gone black. He’d thought of something, then, of…

The canyon, wet with rain for the first time in years. Junior, in his teal armor, curled up next to him in the desert. And Wash, laughing with the early evening sun turning his blond hair red.

 _< I thought of him,>_ he says to Epsilon. _< I thought of Wash. Church, why did I think of Wash?>_

_< Shit, I don’t know Tucker, people think of all sorts of things when they think they might…you know.>_

Tucker turns the moment over and over in his head, replaying it from every angle until he starts to drift off to sleep.

 _I thought of him. I thought of_ Wash.

_Holy shit._


	4. Chapter 4

Wash can’t quite shake the feeling that he’s _forgotten_ something.

He manages to drift off into a light doze, but after less than two hours of fitful tossing, he finds himself jolting up right from some half-remembered dream. The feeling of terror is only intensified by the fact that there’s something wrong. There’s something that he’s _done,_ or forgotten to do, and if he doesn’t _fix_ it then—

His frantic gaze lands on the knives resting neatly on the table between his bed and Tucker’s. Knives. Weapons. That he brought into a room that he was currently sharing with someone he cared about.

Guilt and trepidation work their way into his bones as Wash swings his feet to the floor. What had he been _thinking?_ He has to move them, the knives. They can’t stay here, with him—what if he’s having a _nightmare_ and Tucker tries to wake him up and he—and he—

Wash is halfway to the door with the knives held carefully in his arms when a voice calls him back.

“And just where the fuck are _you_ going?”

Wash turns around slowly to see Epsilon standing on the night table with his arms folded. “I have to move these,” Wash says. “I can’t—I might—Tucker—I don’t know what I was—I have to _move_ them.”

“What—two hours ago you couldn’t get them in here fast enough!” Epsilon says, bewildered. “Just go back to sleep, everything’s fine—”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word on that,” Wash snaps, his voice sharpened by weeks of exhaustion and stress. “I shouldn’t have brought these in here while I was sleeping, I…”

“Wash—”

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” he mutters, hugging the knives closer to his chest. “I just—if someone comes in here, I wanted to be able to…”

 _I have to protect Tucker,_ he wants to say, but doesn’t _. I have to protect all of them._

But he has to protect them from himself, and he can’t believe he’s forgotten that.

“Could you be any more dramatic?” Epsilon snaps, and Wash realizes that he’s spoken the words out loud after all. “Jesus, you’re not gonna _hurt_ any of them.”

“I have, though,” Wash says. “I _have_. I—after Sidewinder…Tucker tried to wake me up, and he, and I…”

_Tucker bending over him, dark eyes wide and terrified, shaking his shoulders and Wash remembers grabbing him, slamming him to the ground, getting his hands around Tucker’s throat. Tucker had struggled, then pawed weakly at his arms before his body had started to still under Wash’s hands, and if Caboose hadn’t—_

Wash still thinks of that moment, and how it was almost the end for him—the end of his sanity, the end of any possible hope of redemption. If Caboose hadn’t come in and pulled him away and backed him against the wall so hard that the base seemed to rattle, then Wash knows something in his head would’ve splintered, beyond repair forever.

“I just have to get rid of these,” Wash says, and if his voice shakes, his hands don’t. “I just… I just have to. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

He ducks out of the room and pads carefully along the base until he finds a dusty alcove that he can dump the knives into. Epsilon is still sitting quietly on the nightstand when Wash returns, and he waits until Wash climbs back into bed before speaking.

“I didn’t know you had nightmares that got that bad.”

“Well, why would you?” Wash says, irritated. “You haven’t…this is the first time you’ve really been around since I was sleeping.”

“No it’s not,” Epsilon protests. “When we were all going to take down the Director. I saw you slept then.” He pauses. “That sounded way less creepy in my head.”

Wash rolls his eyes at the ceiling. “No, you didn’t.”

“But—”

“I _wasn’t_ sleeping; I was keeping an eye on you and Carolina.” He glances over at Epsilon, who is still fidgeting on the nightstand. “Why does this matter, anyway?”

“It doesn’t,” Epsilon says quickly, and falls silent for so long that Wash thinks he’s finally logged off.

Another glance over proves that this isn’t the case. “ _What?_ ”

“I just…” Epsilon shrugs. “I just didn’t know. That you had nightmares, now. I didn’t know. That’s…that’s all.”

_Well, you should. What did you expect? It’s your fault that they’re so bad in the first place._

The unsaid words hang heavy in the air, and after several tense seconds, Wash sighs and lets them go. Epsilon disappears in the brief moment between one blink and the next, the blue light of his projection winking out and plunging the room into darkness.

* * *

The following morning, Wash is exhausted and cranky and utterly unwilling to start the day. The strange, guilty way that Tucker and Epsilon jump when he rolls over does nothing to bolster his mood. Epsilon must have told Tucker about the way he’d woken up, and dispensed of the knives.

“Morning, Wash!” Tucker says, his voice so bright and jaunty that Wash sits up in alarm.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Sleep well?”

“I…” he glances at Epsilon, who makes a series of head shakes and hand gestures that Wash is apparently supposed to be able to interpret. “Uh...yeah. Why…do the two of you look so weird?”

“Your face is weird,” Epsilon mutters, and gives up the hand gestures.

“Dude, where did the knives go?” Tucker asks, glancing at the nightstand with a frown.

He genuinely appears to have just noticed that they’re missing, and Wash slants a suspicious look at Epsilon. “I…Dr. Grey didn’t want any weapons in the infirmary. She took them away early this morning.”

“Oh. Right,” Tucker mutters distractedly. “No weapons. Makes sense.”

He still looks inexplicably guilty, and Wash frowns. “You look…weird. What happened?”

“Christ, Wash, we were sleeping all night, what could possibly have happened?” Tucker snaps.

There’s definitely something up, and Wash sits up a little straighter, suddenly guilty himself. He’d been so focused on not having nightmares himself that he hadn’t given much thought to what Tucker might be going through. “Have you been having nightmares?”

“What? Oh…” Tucker adopts a more somber tone. “Yeah. Yeah. Nightmares. Lots of them. Fucking shitty nightmares.”

This does nothing to assuage Wash’s guilt. “You should’ve woken me up.”

“What? Dude. Then we both would’ve been sitting here awake like a couple of assholes.”

Wash shifts uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, Tucker. I don’t…I’m surprised I didn’t hear you, I don’t normally sleep so soundly.”

“Wash, shut the fuck up. I’m not waking you up when you’re _actually_ sleeping. That shit only happens like twice a year.”

“But I want you to—”

“So you can what?” Tucker snap. “Hold my hand?”

There’s no reason that Wash should feel hurt by those words, but the feeling is there nonetheless. “I just know what it’s like to wake up from a bad nightmare,” he says stiffly. “There’s no reason for you to do the same when I’m six feet away.”

“Oh, _please._ Like you’d ever wake _me_ up? Besides, it doesn’t fucking matter. You’re not gonna be six feet away much longer,” Tucker says, his voice still aggressive and harsh. “Aren’t you supposed to be getting out of here?”

“I can stay, if you want,” Wash says, before he can stop himself, and Tucker snorts.

“I don’t need you to stay. I don’t _want_ you to stay.”

“Tucker,” Epsilon says sharply, but Wash is already up and moving towards the door.

“Epsilon,” he says, “If _Captain_ Tucker crashes, will you come find me?”

“I’ll raise the alarm, dude.”

“Great,” he says, and exits without a second look at Tucker.

“Wash…”

Wash ignores Tucker’s call. He hears Epsilon snap, “Nice going, asshole,” before the door slams shut behind him. He’s halfway down the hall before he realizes that he has no clue where his armor actually is. Dr. Grey’s office is just a few doors down, he remembers from his wanderings yesterday, so he storms in there first.

Dr. Grey is seated at her desk, armored from the waist down. “Why, good morning, Agent Washington!” she says sweetly. “Did you get the all-clear from some _other_ doctor to go wandering the halls?”

“I wasn’t _wandering the halls,_ ” Wash says, annoyed. “I was just walking to your office. You said I could go yesterday, remember?”

“I said you could go after a _final_ checkup. Did you have one of those?”

“No, but—”

“Well, then, let’s scurry on back to your room and—”

“I don’t want to go back to my room,” he says, and sighs when she lifts an eyebrow. “Look, can we just…do it in here?”

“Hmmmm,” she says, but she grabs her medical scanner and waits for him to lift his shirt. “Trouble in paradise?”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, what it means is, twenty-four hours ago I could barely drag you _away_ from Captain Tucker, and now you’re chomping at the bit to leave!”

Wash ignores that in favor of a more pressing issue. “Can I just have my armor back now? Please?”

Dr. Grey sighs. “I suppose.” She turns and opens a closet behind her, revealing Wash’s steel and yellow armor. It’s hung up neatly, and he feels a wave of affection for Dr. Grey and the careful way she has stored his armor.

“Thanks,” he says, and waits expectantly for her to leave. “Should I…just put my undersuit on in here, or…”

“Whatever you like,” she mutters, already re-absorbed in her computer. Wash sighs and puts on his Kevlar undersuit and armor as fast as possible, reflecting dully that this is, in fact, the first time he’s gotten naked in front of someone in years. “I do believe there’s a meeting going on that you’re supposed to be attending,” she chirps once he’s blessedly inside his armor once more.

He pauses in the middle of checking the stock on his rifle. “What meeting? Where? With whom?”

She shrugs, not even looking up from her screens. “I’m not sure. It sounded super important, though.”

“What…Dr Grey. Do you at least know what _time_ this supposed meeting is?”

“Hmmm?”

“Forget it,” Wash says, exasperated, and turns to leave. He opens up the messaging interface on his HUD and fires off a text to Carolina: _Do you know anything about this meeting I’m supposed to be attending?_

It’s only a few seconds before she responds.

CL: _Yes. Meet me in the SW corridor._

WSH: _I don’t even know where that IS._

CL: _Take two lefts, a straight, and a right out of the infirmary._

Wash can’t see any other options, so he begins his trek through the halls. He still doesn’t feel completely comfortable surrounded by so many strangers (so many _armed_ strangers), but he’s far less anxious now that he’s back in his armor. He’s so wound up that it takes him a while to notice what’s so odd about his walk to this meeting.

At first, he thinks it’s his imagination, but when a pair of cadets stops dead in their tracks as he walks by he realizes:

Everyone is _staring_ at him.

 _Really_ staring. Stop-in-your-tracks staring. _Shamelessly._ And—he can’t quite feel certain, given they’re probably doing it over their radios, but—whispering. This had happened yesterday, too, and it’d made him so paranoid that he’d gone to extensive lengths to avoid interacting with anyone all day. He hadn’t exactly been quiet when he’d shouted at Tucker that he didn’t give a damn about the planet, and he wonders just how many people heard him.

Yesterday, he’d thought that they were glaring at him mistrustfully, but today he isn’t so sure. No one has come up to confront him, for one thing, and for another, he’s pretty sure one of them just took a photograph of him on their datapad.

When a group of New Republic cadets literally start walking backwards to get a better look at him, Wash decides he can no longer ignore the situation. “Can I help you?”

The four of them jump in unison, exchanging a series of glances and shoves. “You’re Agent Washington,” one of them finally pipes up, and Wash is instantly distracted by the fact that the cadet sounds about thirteen.

“I...yes. I am. I am Agent Washington.”

“Wow,” one of them breathes reverently. She’s _definitely_ young. He tries to think of the Lieutenants who had come to their rescue after the radio tower, but between his concern for Tucker and his own looming unconsciousness, he has only hazy memories of the Pelican ride back. Tucker’s Lieutenant, the one who’d shoved him out of the way, had been young, but…

He glances around at the hallway full of cadets, who have dropped all sense of pretense of urgency. This must be the New Republic wing of the base, since he doesn’t see a single Federalist soldier in sight. Wash feels the sudden urge to give a motivational speech—they’re staring at him so _expectantly_ —but he’s spared when Carolina comes stalking around the corner.

The hallway mysteriously clears, and Wash finds himself both impressed and exasperated that Carolina has clearly managed to establish a reputation so soon. He’s got some catching up to do.

“ _There_ you are.”

“Sorry, I got…held…up…” he trails off as they round the corner and almost mow down another pair of cadets who are gazing in awe at them. “Carolina. Why are they all _staring_ at us?”

“Because we’re _us,_ Wash.”

He rolls his eyes. They call _him_ dramatic? “Okay?”

“We’re Freelancers.”

“How could they possibly all know that already?”

“I’m getting the impression that gossip spreads quickly around here,” she says dryly.

“Okay, but…”

“Don’t be daft, Wash,” she says. “The Federalists are already enamored with you from your time with them, and to hear the New Republic soldiers tell it, Tucker spent half his time here talking up your training and the other half pining after you.”

Wash is glad he has his helmet on. “What—that’s not—no one was _pining_ —I don’t—”

“Sounds like there was a lot of pining going on. On both ends.”

“What—we were _all_ worried! That tends to happen when you spend months thinking your team is being tortured by the enemy!”

“Is that what you call crashing a tunnel of rocks down to ensure that they got out safely? Being _worried?_ ”

He pauses. “You know about that?”

“Freckles. _Shake,_ ” she says solemnly, but this time Wash hears the note of teasing in her voice. “It’s the stuff of legends around here.”

“Very funny, boss.”

The corridor they enter next is finally empty, and Carolina pauses to pull him close, lowering her voice despite the fact that they’ve been talking over the radio. “Listen. Kimball and Doyle…don’t exactly get along well. They’re having a hard time agreeing about what to do next.”

“And why are the four of _us_ having a meeting, exactly?”

“They want our help strategizing, and setting up a training regimen.”

“They want everyone training together?”

“The only thing they agree on is the fact that the Reds and Blues are their best shot of bringing everyone together. They’ve spent time with both sides, so no one will feel shunted.” She sighs. “This isn’t Freelancer, Wash. These soldiers are in desperate need of some training and order.”

Wash gestures at the door with a growing sense of trepidation. “Well, let’s go in and see what we can do.”

The moment Carolina pushes open the door, Wash wants to turn around and walk right back out.

The room is simple and sleek, with several monitors lining the walls. There’s a long table down the center of the room, at which Wash _assumes_ the esteemed leaders of the Federalist and New Republic armies should be seated, conducting civilized negotiations. However, the civilized negotiations look more like fierce debates, and Kimball and Doyle are both out of their seats, yelling across the table at each other. There are two soldiers from each side in the room as well—to protect their leaders should the occasion arise, Wash assumes. He wonders what they would do should an occasion actually arise, given that the four of them are so engrossed at shouting at each other as well.

Carolina clears her throat. There’s no way that all of them could have heard such an innocuous sound, but everyone in the room falls silent at once. Wash straightens up and tries to look as if he hasn’t just spent two weeks in a hospital bed after getting his ass kicked by one of their biggest enemies.

Doyle is the first to bound over to them, shaking their hands vigorously. “Agents Washington and Carolina,” he says, as if announcing the king and queen of the galaxy. “It is an _honor._ The Federal Army of Chorus could not be more _grateful_ to have the two of you on our side. Rumors of your fighting prowess and esteemed—”

“We’ve met, Doyle,” Wash says, exasperated, but Doyle just continues to wring his hand.

“—quite the mind for strategy, Agent Carolina, or so the stories go, and if I have heard correctly—”

Wash grins as a message pops up on his HUD.

_CL: Is he always like this?_

_WSH: Oh, just wait._

“You know,” the one who Wash presumes to be General Kimball says loudly, “they aren’t just here to help the Federal Army of Chorus, _Doyle._ The New Republic could use a hand as well, given that you’ve thoroughly decimated our supplies over the years.”

“My _dear_ Vanessa,” Doyle says patiently. “Of course the—”

“If you call me that one more time I swear to god I’m going to put a knife straight through that ridiculous helmet—”

“Threats of assassination! Death! Bodily harm!” one of Doyle’s bodyguards howls, and he actually takes several ominous steps towards Kimball.

Carolina doesn’t do anything more than take two steps to the left, positioning herself in between the Fed and Kimball, but the soldier scrambles backwards so severely that he stumbles to the ground.

“Remarkable,” Doyle whispers, staring in awe at the looming figure of Carolina, then frowns at the soldier on the ground. “On your feet, Rodriguez!”

Wash rubs a hand over his visor before extending it to shake Kimball’s hand. “General Kimball, I take it?”

“Agent Washington,” she says, giving his hand a firm shake. He recognizes the tense curve of her shoulders all too well, but there’s something rigid and unyielding there as well, something unbreakable. “We are _very_ grateful that you and Agent Carolina have agreed to help us.”

“Of course,” he says. “My men feel very strongly about protecting the people of this planet.”

She tilts her head at him appraisingly. “And how do _you_ feel, Agent Washington?”

Wash can see he hasn’t fooled her one bit. “I feel very strongly about protecting my men.”

“Well, then it appears we have a common goal.”

“It appears so,” says Wash, and he decides then and there that he likes her. It’s been a long time since he’s fought for anyone that had an interest in being honest with him. “So, how can I help?”

Kimball sighs. “Our soldiers could use some training. _Real_ training. They are very young, and those in charge of the training now are just as young. Tucker, Grif, Simmons and Caboose have done wonders for morale, and they have certainly made improvements in training, but…we could really use a soldier of your caliber.”

“I’ve never trained anyone before,” Wash admits, feeling the best thing to do would be to remain honest. “At least not in any sort of official sense.”

“Captain Tucker says you taught him everything he knows.”

“I…” Wash pauses. “Did he?”

“He did.”

“Wonderful,” Doyle interrupts brightly. “So it’s settled then. We will work out a schedule for Agent Washington to train the rebels, and the Federal Army of Chorus, and—”

“Hang on,” Wash interrupts. “There’s no _separate_ training. It’s absolutely vital that we have mixed training sessions.”

“Wait,” one of Kimball’s cadets says. “We have to _train_ with them?” she gestures with her rifle towards the Federalist soldiers, sounding as if Wash has just sentenced her to the gallows. _“Together?”_

“You have a common enemy now,” Carolina says sharply, and the soldier melts back into the shadows with the tiniest of huffs. “There isn’t any time for these silly games.”

“Of course, we will be asking the both of you to run missions for us,” Doyle says. “We don’t want your considerable talents to go to waste. But in the meantime, we would very much appreciate your help with these tasks.”

“What can I do?” Carolina asks.

“Well,” Kimball says slowly. “We’ve got a lot of intel to run. You see, we’re…we’re low, very low, on ammo.”

“Without the mercenaries bringing in equipment,” Doyle says delicately. “Our situation is _indeed_ rather dire.”

“And since someone didn’t think to ration our ammo,” Kimball says loudly, “our numbers aren’t going to hold up for very long.”

“Well, Miss Kimball, perhaps we could have rationed our ammunition a _trifle_ better if we weren’t defending ourselves from attacks every other day—”

“We had to go on the offensive if we wanted to stay alive out there!”

“So you’d like me to run recon,” Carolina says loudly. “To seek out some ammunition stockpiles the mercs might have?”

Kimball throws a distracted glance her way. “Yes, exactly, please,” she says, before rounding on Doyle again.

“Come on,” Carolina says to Wash, and the two of them slowly back their way out of the room.”

 “Well,” Wash says dully, once he and Carolina are a safe distance down the hallway. “At least that wasn’t a _total_ waste of everyone’s time.”

“Could’ve been worse. You should’ve been at their first meeting. At least we have some objectives now,” Carolina says with a sigh. “Think you’re up to training this bunch, Wash?”

“Carolina, I spent three months whipping Caboose and Tucker into shape. Trust me, this? This is nothing.”

As if on cue, Caboose comes bounding down the hallway towards them. “Agent Washington!” he yells, at what Wash is fairly certain is the top of his voice. “You are awake! And walking! And in your armor!”

Before he can say anything, Caboose picks him up and swings him around. His ribs protest this situation, but Wash has learned the hard way that the more squirming one did in a Caboose hug, the longer the hug went on. He sighs and ignores the flabbergasted, helmeted stares of the soldiers scattered about the hallway. “Hey, Caboose.”

Caboose finally puts him down and holds him at arm’s length. Wash can’t see his face, but he knows that Caboose is positively beaming. “I like when you are out of your armor, but I like when you are in it, too.”

Wash files that one away for later inspection. “How are you doing, buddy?”

“I am doing great! I was looking for you, and then I _found you_.”

“Oh, well…yes, yes you did…” Wash pauses. “Wait, why? Everything okay?”

“Everything is great! It’s going to be better than great! I’m going to help you make lots of new friends.”

Alarm bells start sounding in Wash’s head. “Uh…why?”

Caboose sighs pityingly. “Because everyone _needs_ friends, Wash.”

“No, I know, I meant why…why do you think you need to _help_ me make…friends?”

“Because Tucker says you’re really bad at it.”

Wash folds his arms. “Oh, _really?_ And what else does _Captain_ Tucker say?”

“He says that you spent all yesterday hiding from people because you didn’t know how to make friends.”

Wash freezes. Impossible. There’s no way, _no way_ at all, that Tucker could know he spent most of yesterday quietly cataloguing a corner of the armory. _No way_ that he knew Wash felt uncomfortable and ridiculous and entirely out of place, wandering the halls without his armor. This was something the Sim Troopers did, find people and make homes out of them. He’s not cut out for this, he knows it, and he’d thought it best that he stay out of the way before—

“That’s ridiculous,” Wash says stiffly. “I wasn’t _hiding_.”

“Well,” Caboose says slowly. “ _I_ couldn’t find you, and I am very good at seeking, so you must be very good at hiding.”

“That’s….when did Tucker tell you this, anyway?”

“I went to tell him what I had for breakfast this morning, and he said, oh my god Caboose, I don’t care, and Church said are you gonna make someone else cry today because then you’d be two for two, and then Tucker said listen Caboose can you go find Wash and tell him to stop being such a GODDAMN BABY and maybe go talk to some people, meet some chicks or dudes, whatever he’s into —”

Caboose’s ability to recall conversations word for word at breakneck speed is uncanny, and Wash knows that if he doesn’t cut this off at the knees, they’ll be here all day. “Alright, alright, I…I get it.”

“Wash,” Caboose says, “I am going to make you _so many friends_.”

And with that, Caboose takes a hold of Wash’s wrist and starts dragging him down the hallway. Wash casts a pleading look over his shoulder at Carolina, but she’s already shaking with laughter. Resigned, he quickens his step so that he’s walking next to Caboose as opposed to being dragged behind him, hoping this will be Caboose’s cue to let go of his wrist. Caboose does, but only so that he can link his elbow through Wash’s and continue practically skipping down the hall.

The low buzz of voices falters as they round the corner, and Caboose finally stops. Wash fights the urge to run at breakneck speed as every helmeted face turns towards them.

He has a moment to think, _oh no_ , before Caboose sucks in a breath. “MAY I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE!”

“ _Caboose_ —” Wash hisses, but it’s too late.

“I would like you introduce you all to Agent Washington! He is one of my very best friends! He is very good at being a best friend and everyone deserves to have lots of best friends!”

At the end of the hallway, he catches a familiar flash of orange and maroon in his vision, and isn’t surprised to see Grif and Simmons falling all over each other in silent laughter. Wash decides then and there, that, once training starts, those two will be demonstrating all of the exercises for them.

“—and he likes cats and he puts too much sugar in his coffee and his armor used to be blue and he is still on Blue Team even though his armor is grey again, and Blue Team is the best team, and you can’t see but he has a lot of freckles which—” Caboose pauses. “Wash! Show them your freckles!”

Good _god._ He’s spared answering when a soldier with blue stripes down his armor steps up and offers him a formal salute. “Agent Washington. It is an honor.”

The man is almost as tall as Caboose, and his calm, soothing voice sounds vaguely familiar. “Uh…thank you. Uh, at ease, soldier,” he says, when it becomes clear that the soldier has every intention of standing there all day.

“Agent Washington, we are forever in your debt. To have soldiers such as yourself and Agent Carolina lending your considerable talents to help us take back our planet is truly a deed beyond words.”

“You were on the Pelican,” Wash realizes suddenly. There can’t possibly be two voices like that in this army. “After the radio tower. Lieutenant…Andersmith?”

Andersmith’s voice actually chokes up a little. “I am overwhelmed, sir. Lieutenant Andersmith, at your service.”

“Andersmith is one of my best friends,” Caboose says brightly, and the Lieutenant nods solemnly.

“I am truly touched to be given such a title. Not only is Captain Caboose the wisest leader I have ever followed into battle, but he is also a compassionate, caring friend.”

Caboose flings himself on Andersmith in a gigantic bear hug at those words, who returns the hug with equal fervor. That, coupled with the fact that Andersmith sounds so serious that he has to be genuine, Wash decides that this one is alright. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant. I, uh, hope to see you in training soon?”

Andersmith straightens again. “You…will be training us, sir?”

“That’s the plan.”

The Lieutenant seems temporarily unable to speak. He finally manages, “An _honor,_ sir. May I…be dismissed? To spread the news?”

“Of course…Dismissed, soldier.”

With another snappy salute, Andersmith takes off down the hall. Caboose yanks Wash around so fast that he’s convinced he just got whiplash, but he follows a little more willingly now.

It isn’t so bad, Wash has to admit several hours later, after Caboose has introduced him seemingly to every single New Republic soldier in the capital. The cadets stutter and stare and even bolt when Caboose first introduces them, but seem to collectively grow bolder as the day goes on. They already all seem to know that Wash is to be in charge of their training, and cluster around him in little groups to pepper him with questions.

“Agent Washington, are you gonna teach us how to fight?”

“Do we _have_ to train with the _Feds?_ ”

“Is it _true_ that you were the _best shot_ in Freelancer?”

“ _I_ heard that he can hit a bull’s eyes without even looking at the target.”

“That’s ridiculous—”

“If he’s such a good shot, then why did he get himself captured?”

“Because he sacrificed himself, haven’t you heard?”

“Scarified himself?”

“Oh my god, wait, so you _haven’t_ heard the Freckles shake story?!”

“No…”

“Okay, so, you have to ask Kennedy, he was actually there—but he says like, it was all tense and dramatic and he was wounded and then he looked right at Captain Tucker and he said—”

“— _right_ at him, Kennedy says it was like something out of a _movie_ —”

“—collapsed the _whole wall_ and—”

“ _Kennedy says_ it was the most _romantic_ thing he’s ever seen—”

“Alright,” Wash says loudly. The group of cadets has grown since the start of their conversation, seeming to magically suck more soldiers towards them as the topic turned to gossip.  They all fall silent at once as, turning to stare up at him. Wash opens and closes his mouth several times, staring at the last soldier who spoke— _Kennedy says it was the most romantic thing he’s ever seen_ —before clearing his throat, face hot beneath his helmet. “Training will begin soon,” he says uselessly, and they all scatter cheerfully, breaking off in little groups.

* * *

 

He spends the rest of the day with Caboose, wandering around the base. Caboose shows him his room— “Right next to mine, and right next to Tucker’s, because we needed a Blue Team hallway-” and drags him into the mess hall to eat. The day winds down, and before Caboose heads into his room for the night, he removes his helmet and turns to look at Wash. “See, Wash? Now you have lots of friends.”

“Uh…yeah.” Wash wonders if it’s really that simple, but he remembers the way everyone rushed over to talk to Caboose and shake his hand, or give him a hug. Maybe for some people, it is. “Thanks, Caboose.”

Caboose frowns at him. “But you are still sad.”

“I’m not!” Wash protests. “I’m _not._ I enjoyed…making new friends, today. Really, I did, Caboose. Thank you.”

Caboose still looks confused, but shrugs a little and turns into his room. “Tell Tucker I said goodnight. And Church that I said goodnight. And that for dinner I had meatloaf with broccoli or as Tucker would call it, mystery meat with—”

“I’m not going to see Tucker,” Wash interrupts before he can really pick up steam. “I don’t have to go back to the infirmary, remember? All clear.”

“I know that, Agent Washington,” Caboose says, and he actually rolls his eyes. “But you are still going to see Tucker.”

“Why do you want me to go see Tucker?”

“I don’t want you to see Tucker.”

Wash considers himself to be pretty adept and interpreting what Caboose says, but he is at a total loss. “But—”

“ _You_ want to see Tucker,” Caboose continues, exasperated. “Because you had a long day, and you are feeling stressed out and dramatic—”

“People can’t _feel_ dramatic, Caboose—”

“—and when you are feeling stressed out and dramatic, Tucker makes you feel....”

“Feel…?”

Caboose shrugs. “Better.”

* * *

Wash stands outside the infirmary door for nearly a minute, feeling equal parts annoyed and nervous for no discernable reason.

_Kennedy says it was the most romantic thing he’s ever seen—_

He gives himself a shake and shoves the infirmary door open, leaning against the doorframe.

Tucker glances up from his datapad and instantly tosses it aside when he sees Wash. “How are you feeling?” Wash asks stiffly.

Tucker rolls his eyes when Wash remains standing where he is. “Dude, just get in the room. I didn’t mean to be a dick earlier. I’m just so tired of being in this fucking bed and—”

“You’re not the only one,” Epsilon mutters.

Wash sighs and inches forward a bit. “It’s fine, Tucker. Really, I should be far more annoyed at how you got Caboose to introduce me to half the base.”

“Oh shit, he actually did that?”

“He sure did. _All day_ ,” Wash emphasizes.

Tucker is unsympathetic. “Gotta meet some people sometime.”

“It was a little more than _some people,_ ” Wash grumbles, but he sits down on the bed across from Tucker. “How did you know that I…yesterday…”

“That you spent all day avoiding people like the flood? Wash. _Please._ You were in need of some serious help on this one. And Caboose…”

“They love him,” Wash says. “Caboose.”

“Oh geez, I know,” Tucker sighs. “It’s like a fucking Caboose fan club around here.”

“You have quite the fan club yourself,” Wash points out.

Tucker puffs himself up a little. “That’s ‘cause I’m a war hero, Wash. People are lining up to suck my dick.”

“Moving on,” Epsilon says hastily. “Tucker, for the love of god—”

Wash finds the predictable turn of Tucker’s mind comforting in a way he doesn’t examine too closely. He scoots up the bed, leaning back against the wall, and lets the sound of Epsilon and Tucker’s bickering soothe his harried nerves. This...this is good.

* * *

 

By the time Wash makes it back to his own bunk, the base is dark and quiet. He is only slightly surprised when sleep continues to elude him: he’d thought that, at least, being out of the hospital would help him to grab a few hours each night. His tiny room is small and foreign, but there is a window, at least. Midway through the night, he rearranges his sheets so that the window lies at the foot of his bed as opposed to his head, and looking at the starlight, he finally falls into a dreamless sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

About ten million years later, Tucker is finally allowed out of the infirmary. He bounces his leg impatiently against the bed as Dr. Grey finished her final exam, throwing out the occasional “yeah” and “uh-huh” as she lectures him on the importance of taking it easy. The _snap-hiss_ of his armor sealing has never sounded so good, and he executes a few perfect _swish-swish-stabs_ with his sword in the hallway, and it’s _amazing_ , right up until the moment when Carolina rounds the corner.

“Don’t know _what_ I have to do to get through to you people,” she’s still saying five minutes later, although her voice has thankfully dropped a few octaves. “ _Why_ you find it so hard to take anything seriously—you are going to land yourself right back in the infirmary in _no_ time if you keep carrying on like this—”

“Oh- _ho_ , my god, Carolina, please _stop,_ I get it.” He glances around the hallway and drops his voice. “Can you maybe stop screaming at me? I have a reputation to keep up. You’re gonna embarrass me, _Jesus_.”

Carolina’s helmet jerks back a little, and when she apologizes, the words actually sound sincere. “I’m sorry, Captain. You’re right.”

Tucker puffs out his chest. “Fuck _yeah_ , I am! Feel free to call me Captain whenever you like—”

“When I reprimand you, I’ll be sure to do it when it’s just the two of us,” she says sweetly, and Tucker deflates a little before brightening again.

“I mean, if that’s what you’re into—”

“And since you clearly feel up to swinging that sword around,” she says loudly, “You should be ready to start training soon.”

“Well, now…let’s not get hasty…”

“That’s what I _thought_ ,” she says. “Unfortunately, I think we need to wait another week before you start any actual physical activity—”

“Oh, come _ooon,_ ” Tucker groans. “Do you know how goddamn _hard_ I worked to have this bod? It’s gonna wither away if I don’t do something soon!”

“I thought you didn’t want to start training.”

“I don’t, but…I also _do?_ ”

Epsilon projects his avatar, casting a desperate look at Carolina. “Do you see what I’ve been putting up with?”

“Yeah yeah, vacation’s over, asshole,” Tucker says, reaching up to his implants before realizing that Epsilon doesn’t actually have a chip. He gestures towards Carolina instead. “Go on.”

Epsilon shifts uncomfortably. “Well, uh…as desperate as I am to get out of the cesspool that you call your mind…” He trails off, awkward, and Tucker follows his line of thought.

“Church, you don’t have to say,” he says, exasperated. “Seriously, I’m _fine_.”

“Apparently I _do_ have to stay if the first thing you’re gonna do once you’re released from the infirmary is bust out some half-assed katas in the hallway,” he mutters. “I’ll just. Hang out for a few days, make sure you’re in the clear, and then I’ll be on my way.”

Carolina tilts her head at him appraisingly, and it takes Tucker a moment to realize that she looks proud. “I think that’s a great idea, Epsilon. Tucker could use an extra pair of eyes for a few more days.”

“Uh, I’m not a _charity case_ —”

 “It’s not like I _wanna_ stay,” Epsilon says, and Tucker rolls his eyes. _Classic_ Church Sulk. “I just like, _have_ to. For his own stupid good.”

Tucker tries to hide the pleased feeling that comes with these words, but then gives it up. “You _care_ about me,” he crows to Epsilon, who starts sputtering. “You _do_. You think I’m your _best. Friend_.”

Carolina claps her hand on Tucker’s shoulder. “Well, I’ll just leave you boys to it, then,” she says brightly. “Epsilon, if he does anything reckless? I want to know _all_ about it.”

“Well, she’s clearly taking advantage of alone time,” Tucker says as Carolina saunters off down the hallway. “Wanna take bets on who she’s banging?”

“ _No,_ Tucker, I do not want to take _bets_ on who she’s banging!”

Tucker grins as Epsilon huffs, and starts down the unfamiliar halls. He has to admit, he can see how this would’ve freaked Wash out, wandering around without his armor. Nearly everyone he passes is in full or at least partial armor, and the Federalists all do a double take. Tucker isn’t convinced he wouldn’t have spent half the day hiding in the armory, either. _Speaking_ of which.

“So, like, _Wash_ ,” Tucker starts, but Epsilon cuts him off with a groan.

“Oh, _God_ , please don’t start this again. I can’t take it. I really can’t.”

Tucker huffs. “Well, help me figure it out then!”

“Tucker, I promise you that this is literally the last thing in the _entire world_ that I want to talk about.”

“I thought of him,” Tucker says, again, because this is important, he just _knows_ it. If only he knew _how_ or _why_. “I thought of Junior, which is obvious, and that time it rained in Blood Gulch, which was, I don’t know, I guess it was cool or whatever. But why would I think of Wash? Like, Wash _specifically?_ ”

“I really have no idea.”

“C’mon,” he says pleadingly. “You’re in my head, can’t you tell me what I’m thinking?”

“Tucker, maybe this is something you should be figuring out for yourself.”

“Oh, _please_ ,” Tucker grumps. “Don’t pretend you’re that deep. You just don’t wanna talk about it!”

“Bingo.”

Tucker frowns, thinking hard. He does remember the moment with astounding clarity. It had been just him and Wash, at the crash site. Wash had been attempting to teach him something about gun disarming, but they’d kept getting distracted by the Reds bickering across the way.  Sarge was supposed to be conducting his own training session, and for some reason Wash was more concerned about getting them to stop screwing around than whatever he was supposed to be teaching Tucker. He’d been so serious, brows furrowed and shoulders tense, until Tucker had gotten fed up and done a truly world-class impersonation of Wash.

And Wash, instead of being angry, instead of ordering him to do a thousand push-ups, had thrown back his head and laughed.

The mood of their training session had shifted, after that. Wash loosened up, and Tucker stopped whining, and it allowed something light and easy to settle between them. It wasn’t so bad, he had to admit, the whole training thing. Seeing some of the tension in Wash’s shoulder lift after that laugh, had left Tucker feeling pretty pleased with himself. Wash had just looked so _relaxed,_ laughing in the sun, and there’d been something about it, something…

“I gotta recreate that moment,” he says finally. “With Wash, at the crash site. Maybe then I can figure out what was so goddamn _special_ about it.”

“And just how do you plan to do that?”

“I just need to see him standing in the light or some shit, _fuck,_ I don’t know. How hard could it be?”

* * *

Tucker had forgotten how much Wash hated being out of armor. He’d seen Wash fairly often without his armor in the days following Sidewinder, first because he was injured and then because he just didn’t care about the consequences. Tucker hadn’t put this together until Carolina had shown up, at which point Wash barely took his helmet off, let alone all of his armor. It had taken ages before Wash finally took his armor off for more than two seconds at the crash site, and once Felix had arrived, and Wash had painted his armor back to steel, it was game over. Getting Wash to remove his helmet _here,_ on a military base filled with people he doesn’t trust, was going to be nearly impossible, let alone the rest of his armor.

 _Well,_ Tucker thinks, _nothing wrong with a challenge._

He hardly sees Wash his first day back. Tucker spends his time swaggering around the base, high-fiving all the New Republic soldiers and showing up just in time to interrupt Palamo, who is smack in the middle of what sounds like an extremely well-rehearsed story, of how he apparently _thought_ the evac at the crash site went down. At lunchtime, Tucker drops his tray smack into the middle of a table full of Feds and elbows his way between two of them. They are stiff and unresponsive at first, but thirty minutes later, he and Church have them all howling with laughter— _aaaand,_ Tucker notes in satisfaction, half the mess hall is looking their way. Some of them look confused and rather mutinous, but many of the soldiers keep glancing over curiously.  

His meeting with Kimball and Doyle is far less amusing. Simmons finds him halfway through the day and chastises him for being late to what is, _apparently_ , A Super Important and Super-Secret Captains Meeting, and _hurry up Tucker, we’re going to get in trouble, didn’t Caboose tell you about this meeting?!_

“Of course Caboose didn’t tell me!” Tucker cries, struggling to keep up, as Simmons pelts hell-mell down the hallway. “He barely remembers his own _name_ some days, what the hell makes you think he remembered to tell me about a meeting?”

“I don’t _know,_ Tucker, do you think I have time to fix another one of your Blue Team Problems?”

“Why did you say it like that? Like it’s a _thing?_ ”

“Because it _is_ a thing!”

“And _why_ couldn’t one of you have radioed me, anyway? Or sent a text? Why did you have to come charging through the base like a bat out of hell?” He sighs when Simmons doesn’t answer. “Didn’t even occur to you. Did it?”

“Oh look, we’re here!” says Simmons, and he comes to an abrupt halt in front of the door. He inches his way through and throws up a salute so enthusiastically that his armored hand bounces off his visor. “Generals! Captain Simmons reporting for duty. I have brought Captain Tucker.”

“Yes, thank you Simmons,” Kimball mutters distractedly. “Although, I did just mean you could send him a message. "Tucker, this is General Donald Doyle. Doyle, Captain Tucker.”

“Pleased to meet you, Captain Tucker,” Doyle says, and sticks out his hand.

“What’s up,” Tucker says by way of greeting.

“Captain Tucker, allow me to introduce you to my Captains. We have more, of _course_ , but these are the four that you will be working most closely with. Captains Fitz, Perry, Ali, and Patil, at your service.”

Tucker glances surreptitiously over at Doyle’s four Captains, who are standing at rigid attention in a formation so intense that Tucker is half-convinced they’re about to break out into a dance routine, and tries to imagine what they think of Kimball’s Captains. Between Grif lounging in what’s clearly supposed to be Kimball’s chair with his feet on the meeting table, Caboose standing on said table unscrewing a perfectly good lightbulb, Simmons _still_ standing at the door with a salute thrown up, and Tucker—well, Tucker thinks he looks relatively normal—he wouldn’t be surprised if Kimball threw them all out and started from scratch.

But Kimball barely seems to notice the fact that Grif is half asleep or that Caboose is swapping out two lightbulbs for no discernible reason. She is straight backed and proud, dripping confidence, and when she speaks to Doyle, it’s with a ringing pride that makes Tucker suddenly feel affectionate for her.

“I assure you, my Captains will do whatever it takes to ensure the safety of this planet and the integration our two armies,” she’s saying.

“Miss Kimball, I have no doubts that they will _try_ ,” Doyle says delicately.

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Hey, I was doing a _great_ job just now! Church and I just made friends with a whole bunch of Feds. I didn’t see any of the Chorus dance squad over there trying to mingle in the mess hall.”

Church materializes just long enough to air high-five Tucker before vanishing again, and Kimball shakes her head a little.

“Why is this even a thing?” Grif says, apparently waking up out of a dead sleep to add his two cents to the conversation. Fucking Red Team. “Like, this whole integration bullshit? Not that I really care or anything, but didn’t you both just find out you’ve been getting fucked over for the last several years?”

“There is a bigger bad guy to fight,” Caboose says, and having finished switching the lightbulbs, he moves to rearranging the chairs. “Very big. With big ships and guns. You are all small, with small ships, and small guns, but if you put the small things together, they too will make a big thing!”

One of Doyle’s Captains clears his throat. “Permission to speak, sir!”

“Ah… _yes_ , go ahead, Fitz.”

“I agree with Captain Boxcar. There is too much at stake, and it is vital to the survival of this great planet that we work together too—”

“Wait,” Grif interrupts. “Did you just call him Captain _Boxcar?_ ”

“Er…”

“Because I mean, there’s no way you could’ve _possibly_ misheard that.”

“I’m…sorry, I meant Captain…”

“Caboose,” Caboose and Tucker say at the same time.

“Yes. Captain…Caboose. He makes a good point.”

“Thank you, Fitz,” says Doyle. “Let me _assure_ you, I am by no _means_ disagreeing—”

“Because Caboose and Boxcar sound nothing alike. Did you really just pick another train name and hope for the best? Or was that supposed to be funny?”

“Grif,” Kimball says through gritted teeth, “we get it, thank you.”

Tucker sighs. “What were we even talking about, here?”

There’s a moment of silence as everybody visibly tries to remember the original point of the conversation. “Literally nothing,” Church says, blinking into life again. “We didn’t make it past introductions before Grif here decided to _derail_ the whole process! Ha! Get it? Derail? Like a train…like…”

He trails off and glances around at them all, then vanishes with a sigh. “Okay, great,” Tucker says, “we’re your Captains, these are Doyle’s Captains, we’re all gonna set a good example for the kids and try to get along. Anything else?”

“Weapons,” Church says, appearing for the third time. “The weapons shortage. It’s shitty.”

“If you’re gonna keep interrupting, why don’t you just stay out here?”

“Permission to speak!” barks Ali. Or maybe Perry. Tucker can’t remember which.

“Permission granted, Ali.”

“We were not told that the New Republic had an A.I. as part of their assets. Such a tactical advantage could change everything.”

“That’s because the New Republic _doesn’t_ have an A.I.,” Tucker says. “Church is normally with Carolina, and he’ll be going back to her soon enough.”

“So...his chip can be passed around?”

“He doesn’t _have_ a chip,” Simmons says, finally dropping his salute. “Church has the ability to jump from host to host. He travels via neural implants, which we all have since we were part of Project Freelancer.”

“Since you were _Simulation Troopers_ in Project Freelancer,” says Ali.

“Dude,” Grif says, “You realize we’re _not from Chorus,_ right? And that we’re _not_ the people you’ve been fighting for years now? And that we don’t _actually_ give a shit about this civil war you’ve all been wrapped up in, since there are way bigger problems that we now have to deal with?”

“So maybe take your hostility down a notch,” Tucker adds.

“So the weapons shortage,” Kimball says loudly. “It’s a problem. We’ve taken inventory and we’re going to have to be very careful not to waste any. Agent Carolina will be in charge of finding new weapon stockpiles, but what we need from you all is to make sure that none of the ammunition we do have is wasted. Target practice is to be done _sparingly_. We have to make every shot on the field _count_.”

Tucker takes a seat as the two of them launch into detail: how the Federalist weapons depots are all but out of their reach, seeing as how they are bound to be heavily guarded by Felix and Locus.

“That’s fine,” Tucker says darkly. “I’m looking forward to a rematch.”

“Yes, well,” Doyle says, “I think it _best_ to avoid engaging the mercenaries unless absolutely necessary.”

“I still think that’s a terrible idea,” says Kimball. “We need to hit them, and hit them _hard_. It’s the last thing they’ll be expecting this early in the game. If we can remove Felix and Locus from the equation—even just _one_ of them—it will be a huge victory for us.”

“Sign me up for that mission,” Tucker says. “I mean, I totally agree. Cut off the head of the snake and all that shit.”

“You just want a chance to fight Felix again,” Simmons finally pipes up from the corner.

“The point,” Kimball interrupts, before Tucker can even think to snap back, “Is that we will be going on missions to retrieve the ammunition soon enough. For now, your objectives are twofold: focus on conserving the ammo we _do_ have, and focus on your training. We have placed Agent Washington in charge of training, so it’s important that you all set a good example and help him where you can.”

“Agent Washington is a highly capable soldier,” Doyle all but gushes. “He has made quite a difference in our soldiers’ skill sets in a fairly short amount of time.”

For some reason, Tucker feels as smug as if Doyle’s just complimented him at these words. “Uh, so does that mean we aren’t training our cadets anymore?”

“On the contrary,” Doyle says, “You will all be training together.”

“Wash is going to oversee all of the training, but it’ll be up to him to set training schedules and—”

“Wait,” Tucker interrupts. “ _Wait._ So Wash is going to be training us too?”

“That’s what just said, yes.”

“But I already have to do private lessons with Wash! Can’t I skip these?”

“Tucker,” Kimball says sternly. “ _Agent Washington is going to be setting the training schedules_. We are still working out all the kinks. So, again, I need you all to set a good example. Is that clear?”

She glances around the room until all of the Captains make various signs of assent. “Yeah yeah, I got it,” Tucker mutters when her gaze falls on him, and takes a moment to reflect on the fact that he’s apparently going to be doing nothing but training for the rest of his life.

* * *

“Well,” Tucker says to Epsilon with a sigh as they exit down another hallway, “at least I’ll get some more opportunities to figure this whole Wash thing out.”

“Or, conversely,” Epsilon says, “There could just not be a whole ‘Wash thing,’ and then nobody has to watch this inevitable train wreck.”

“Haha…”

He finally sees Wash that evening outside their quarters. He’s leaning against the wall, tapping away on his datapad, but glances up when Tucker rounds the corner.

“How was your first day back?”

Tucker considers. “Well, I didn’t bleed out all over the base like you were so worried about, so I’d call that a win.”

“That’s not funny, Tucker,” Wash says, and his voice is so quiet that Tucker actually feels a little guilty.

“Sorry, sorry.” He pauses. “I did make some new Fed friends, though.”

“I saw,” Wash says, his voice brightening. “In the mess hall. That’s great.”

“Yeah, well. Kimball _does_ want us to help you set a good example.”

“Speaking of that, I was hoping for your assistance in setting up a training schedule. I’d like to know what you have been teaching the soldiers, so that I can use that as a baseline.”

“Sure.”

Wash lowers the datapad, staring at him. “Wait, really?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“Oh, well…thanks, Tucker.”

“Dude,” says Tucker, irritated, “I’ve been training these guys for months. I want them to be good, too.”

“I know that,” Wash says quickly. “I just thought you’d be happy to be relieved of the burden.”

“It’s fine. I’ve been sitting on my ass for so long that I’m dying to do something.”

“Alright, then.” Wash turns off his datapad with a shrug. “I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow. Zero six hundred.”

“Yeah yeah—wait, _what_ time?”

* * *

Wash starts pounding on his door at zero six hundred on the dot the next morning, and it’s out of sheer habit that Tucker takes his good old time about it. By the time he gets his armor on and emerges from his room, Wash has already worked himself up into lecture mode.

“Captain Tucker. When I tell you that I need you up by zero six hundred, I mean that I need you fully armored and ready to go. Not rolling out of bed. Not getting dressed. _Fully armored and ready to go._ Is that understood?”

“Understood,” says Tucker, but his yawn makes the words come out more like _unnnnahhhhoooooo._ Wash is not amused, but he starts leading the charge to the mess hall. The scrambled eggs and toast they’re serving isn’t the greatest, but at least there’s coffee, and Tucker’s halfway through chugging his second cup before he notices Wash glaring at his own paper coffee cup as if it’s personally offended him.

“There’s a sugar shortage,” he explains when he notices Tucker staring. “The coffee is so _bitter_ here.”

He takes another unenthusiastic sip, and Tucker finds himself working hard to keep from grinning. Wash looks so human in that moment, all messy-haired and cranky because he can’t dump ten tablespoons of sugar into his coffee. Tucker makes a mental note to keep an eye out for some sugar if they end up doing supply runs, not that Wash really _needs_ anymore sugar in his diet.

“Yeah, well, you use too much sugar anyway,” he says, and Wash pouts. Actually _pouts._ His nose scrunches up and his mouth turns down at the corners and it’s so goddamn _cute_ that Tucker wants to grab his stupid freckly face and—

His thoughts come to a screeching halt as he sits up in alarm. Jesus Christ, what’s gotten into him?

 _< Whatever it is, it needs to stop,>_ Epsilon mutters crankily, and Tucker gives himself a little shake. Right. He needs to focus. He needs to _prioritize_. Set his goals straight: keep the armies alive. Keep the Feds and News from killing each other. Kill the mercs. _And_ find out why Wash was the last thing he thought of before almost dying.

“…Tucker? Are you listening to me?”

Tucker straightens up to see Wash standing up at the table, fitting his helmet back on. “Huh? Oh, yeah. Toooootally listening. Got every word. We doing this or what?”

Tucker spends half of their walk from the mess hall frantically trying to figure out where they’re going before he realizes that Wash is leading them towards the armory. He wants to take inventory of the weapons himself, to see what they might use for training. Tucker is in the middle of regaling him with stories of training the cadets when they arrive.

“I mean, if you think I’m bad, wait until you have to train— _oh my god_.”

Tucker stops so suddenly in the doorway that Wash stumbles into him. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Tucker says quickly. “Nothing! Come on, let’s go in.”

He pushes open the door and steps fully into the armory, mind racing. Epsilon is following the lines of his thoughts until-- _< Oh, geez. Tucker…>_

 _< Shut up,>_ Tucker tells him distractedly. He’s making a beeline for the weapons testing range outside the armory, the one that’s marked with caution tape—

And offset with bright, glowing, _red_ lights.

_Perfect._

“Uh, Tucker? You were saying?”

“Hmmm?” Tucker mumbles. “Oh. Uh. _Training._ Palomo. He’s annoying, like, really annoying, so have fun with that.”

“I’ve had my share of annoying,” Wash mutters, then sighs loudly as he almost runs into Tucker again. “Would you stop doing that?”

Tucker comes to a halt once they’re both bathed in the harsh red glow of the warning lights and turns to look at Wash. Now if only… “You have something on your helmet,” Tucker blurts. He can practically feel Epsilon face-palming inside his head.

Wash’s brings a half-hearted hand up to his helmet. “Where?”

“On…the side. Right there.”

Wash brushes a hand along the side of his helmet. “Did I get it?”

“No…”

“Well, what is it?”

“I don’t know. Here, give it to me.”

“What?”

“ _Your helmet_ ,” Tucker emphasizes. “C’mon, give it here, I’ll get it off.”

“Get _what_ off?!”

“There’s a bug on it.”

Wash tuts impatiently. “Tucker, just brush it off!”

“I…don’t like bugs,” Tucker improvises wildly. “So, like, if you just give me your helmet, I can…”

“Since when don’t you like bugs?” Wash asks suspiciously. “I’ve seen you get them out of Caboose’s room at least a dozen times.”

Goddammit. “Well, I don’t like _these_ bugs.”

“Tucker—”

“Wash, give me your _goddamn_ helmet!”

Wash _does_. He’s shocked when Wash removes his helmet at Tucker’s words, revealing a bewildered and slightly annoyed face. “What’s gotten into you?”

Tucker stares at him for a beat too long, trying to figure out why he feels so _dazed,_ before snapping back into action. One mystery at a time. “Wash, that bug is gonna get on you—here.” He snatches the helmet out of Wash’s hands and makes a big show out of shaking it dramatically and stomping the life out of the imaginary bug on the ground. “There.”

Finally. Tucker glances at Wash, standing in the glow, and sighs in disappointment. The harsh red is illuminating his hair, but it’s still not _right._ The glare of the sirens is too harsh, unlike the soft glow of the sun that had lit Wash up at the crash site.

There’s also the fact that Wash wasn’t staring at him as if he’d lost his mind at the crash site, but Tucker thinks that’s beside the point. He’ll have to try something else.

Epsilon groans in despair as Tucker hands the helmet back to Wash. “All better,” he says cheerfully. “Gotta watch those…those bugs, Wash. They’re poisonous.”

“Tucker, we are wearing _power armor_.”

“Yeah, but…you know what, fine, don’t thank me for saving your ungrateful ass from one of Chorus’s most lethal specimens.”

* * *

It’s the color, Tucker decides. The color had been all wrong.

 _< Tucker, I really, _really _don’t think you’re on the right track here. >_

Tucker ignores Epsilons’ desperate whisper as he watches Wash tape lines that are supposed to mean something all over the training room floor. The color had been all wrong in the armory. He needed something different, something really and truly _red_.

And for red, he needed—

* * *

TKR: I need ur help. wash is taping up the layout in the training room and we could use your expertise

The look of confusion on Wash’s face when Sarge sweeps theatrically into the training room five minutes later is worth it, particularly when Sarge points a finger at Wash and howls, “Treachery!”

Wash pauses in the middle of cutting a pieces of tape off the role. “Can I…help you, Sarge?”

“Help _me!_ ” Sarge marches forward and snatches the tape out of Wash’s hands. “I think you’re the one who needs help, Blue!”

“I don’t—”

“Taping off the training sections, huh?” Sarge turns in a slow circle, then points towards a particularly large taped square. “That the hand to hand section?”

“Yes, and—”

“And that?” Sarge gestures again. “That for knife work?”

“Yes, and—”

“And I suppose strength training will be there?”

“Yes, and—”

“It’s all wrong! All of it! We need to start from scratch!”

Which is when Sarge starts ripping the tape off the floor, and Wash loses his patience completely, and the two of them start a tug-o-war match over the duct tape. It’s entertaining, sure, but when Tucker turns his helmet lamp on to try to light Wash up against Sarge’s bright red armor, all he gets is both Wash _and_ Sarge yelling at him in annoyance and absolutely _no_ warm feeling in his chest.

“I mean, you didn’t _actually_ expect that to work.”

Tucker glares at where Epsilon is seated glumly on the bench next to him before relenting. “Okay, no, I didn’t, but…it’s pretty funny, right?”

“Yeah,” Epsilon says, snickering as Wash tackles Sarge to the ground. “Yeah, it’s pretty funny.”

* * *

Over the course of the next two days, Tucker manages to get Wash standing helmetless in front of a kitchen fire, a weapons test explosion, and a painted red wall, and he’s accomplished nothing except spectacularly annoying Wash. He’s starting to think he imagined the whole thing: the light, the feeling in his chest. He’d even gotten Wash to laugh during the day—well, _Grif_ had gotten Wash to laugh—and Tucker had perked up, thinking maybe that was it, the laughing, but as nice as it was, that hadn’t done it either.

At least they’d come up with a pretty solid training plan. He’d finally given up at the end of day two and sat down with Wash and Grif, who was probably the least suited to coming up with a training regimen but was too lazy to get up and leave from where he and Wash had set up camp. He’d thrown out a few sarcastic comments that Wash had somehow managed to find value in, and _boom_ , they had their training schedule.

As a result, Wash is in a relatively good mood, so Tucker can’t call the day a total waste. He’s feeling sleepy and content when they finally head back to their quarters at the end of the day, and—

Tucker feels a jolt of excitement as they round a corner on their way the Blue Team hallway. There’s a window at the end of the hallway, and it’s spilling in a glorious amount of dying sunlight.

 _Okay,_ Tucker, he tells himself. _Don’t fuck this up. Play it cool._

He ambles casually down the hallway to lean against the windowsill. Wash joins him, and for a few moments, they stare out the window in companionable silence.

“It’s a nice looking planet,” Tucker says, and as the words leave his mouth he realizes that they’re kind of true. Chorus is a planet of extremes, icy planes and lush jungles. The alien spires dotting every horizon give it an otherworldly look, and the skies are open and encompassing. He reaches up casually and removes his helmet, propping it up against his hip.

“It’s a little hot,” Wash answers, leaning his shoulder against the window frame.

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who likes cold weather better than hot.”

Wash laughs a little. “I might be.”

“You _might_ be?”

He falters a little. “I don’t…I’m not sure, really. Sometimes I like the heat, and sometimes the cold. It’s hard to…I can’t tell which is…I mean…”

There’s a stab of guilt inside his head from where Epsilon is listening quietly.

“I like the rain, though,” Wash says finally. “I know _I_ like the rain.”

There’s something in those words that tells Tucker they are important, very important, but he isn’t sure why. “The rain is nice,” he offers, because he supposes he must like the rain too, if he thought of it before he almost died. “It never rained in the desert.”

Wash does a little shake of his head, turning to look at Tucker. He does this sometimes, Tucker’s noticed, goes all quiet and thoughtful before pulling back slightly with his shoulders and giving his head a little shake. Tucker’s yet to figure out exactly what it means, but he knows better than to ask Wash about it.

“Think we can do it? Save the planet and all that shit?” Tucker asks, trying to keep his voice light and casual, as if this isn’t a question of vital importance.

Wash sighs. “I think we have a _shot_ ,” he says slowly. “I think that if we can get these people to work together, then we have a shot.”

Tucker feels something deep inside his chest go calm at these words, but the next second he’s standing up straight again, because Wash is finally, _finally_ reaching up to pop the seals on his own helmet. He stares out the window, and _there_ it is, the right light, the _perfect_ light, turning Wash’s hair to flame and his eyes to oceans.

Tucker subtly inches backwards until he can get a clear look at Wash. He’s peering hard out the window, eyebrows furrowed slightly. The sun is painting his hair a ruby red, and illuminating every single one of his freckles. Tucker waits expectantly, nerves tingling in anticipation, but nothing happens. There’s no flutter in his chest, no trip-trapping of his heart, nothing to suggest that this should be the last thing he thinks of before _dying_. It’s nice, Tucker thinks clinically, but not really any different from looking at a work of art. Sure, Wash has the kind of jawline one might expect to see on ancient statues, and Tucker thinks it might be a respectable goal to lick every single one of those freckles, but—

“Oh, my god,” he breathes, before he can stop himself.

Wash turns to stare at him, lifting an eyebrow, and yep, yep, that is _definitely_ doing it for him, he is absolutely, one hundred percent _here_ for that eyebrow-raise-smirk thing Wash is doing. “Tucker, are you feeling okay?”

“Dude, I am feeling _so_ okay,” Tucker says enthusiastically. “I just, uh. I have to go do a thing.”

“But—”

Tucker takes off down the hallway, leaving a bewildered Wash still standing in the window with the sunset caught in his hair like a fucking painting. He walks as fast as he can without actually running to Blue Team’s hallway and skids into his room, slamming the door shut and leaning his back against it, mind racing.

 “I’m gonna fuck him,” he announces, and once the words are out he can’t understand why it took them this long to say them. “Dude! I am _so_ gonna fuck him.”

Epsilon projects his avatar in front of Tucker’s face, arms folded across his chest. “Very _funny,_ Tucker.”

“This is, without a doubt, the greatest idea I’ve ever had,” Tucker continues, ignoring him. “Why did it take me so long to _think_ of this? He’s hot, I’m hot, there’s this whole like, _authority_ kink already in place—”

“Oh, my god. You’re _serious_. Aren’t you?”

“I’m _so_ serious, dude.” Tucker pauses. “Wait. That’s an important question. Is he into dudes?”

“I have no idea!”

“What! Yes you _do,_ you were in his head, c’mon, you gotta help me out here!”

Epsilon stares at him. “You’re joking, right?”

“Uh…no?”

“Are you—did you _see_ the look on his face when I let slip that I knew how many times he had his ribs broken?”

“Well, _yeah_ —”

“And you want me to tell you all about his _sexual preferences?_ ”

Tucker shifts guiltily. “Well…it’s for a good cause?”

“Jesus _Christ_.”

“It is! Wash deserves to feel good. I’m gonna make him feel _so good_.”

Epsilon sighs. “Is there any way I can talk you out of this?”

“Nope. You, uh, might wanna log off now though.”

“Why?” Epsilon asks, alarmed. “You’re not…you’re not gonna try to put this half-assed plan into action _now,_ are you?”

“Of course not,” Tucker says impatiently. “This is a situation that requires _finesse_. I need all my best moves.”

“Good, because I _really_ don’t want to have to witness this, so if you can maybe wait until I’m back with Carolina—”

“I _am_ gonna go jerk off and think of Wash, though, ‘cause I need to see if that does it for me before I do anything else. So unless you wanna help me with that…”

Epsilon vanishes, logging off and sequestering himself somewhere deep inside Tucker’s head, and Tucker wastes absolutely no time getting comfortable on his bunk and congratulating himself on what is _surely_ the best idea he’s ever had.


	6. Chapter 6

Wash isn’t planning to admit this to anyone out loud— _ever_ —but staring around at the disaster that is his first training session with the New Republic cadets, he has to conclude that Grif and Tucker were right:

The two armies _absolutely_ need separate training sessions to start.

“Trust me, dude,” Tucker had said when Wash made a face at this proposition. “I don’t know how legit these Feds are, but if you throw them together with the News right away, there’s gonna be a _lot_ of tears and a _lot_ of drama.”

“Just give ‘em a few days to warm up to you and get used to like, _actual_ training,” Grif added.

Wash had sighed. “ _What_ do you call what you guys were doing with them? _Fake_ training?”

Tucker and Grif had exchanged a glance. “Uh, compared to the hell _you’re_ probably about to unleash? That’s _exactly_ what we’d call it.”

“Great, Grif, that’s very helpful.”

It had taken a bit more coaxing, but eventually Wash had agreed to spend a week training the Feds and News separately before combining his efforts. He supposes it will be a good baseline. He supposes it can’t hurt to get to know the cadets a bit. He _supposes_ —

“ _LEFT!_ ” he screams, as the cadets running the fake infiltration scenario promptly turn right, “I _SAID_ to enter the building from the LEFT!”

He _supposes_ they have a lot to learn.

“Stop, _stop,_ everybody stop!” Wash resists the urge to slap a hand over his visor and groan. “Just… _stop_. Team A, come back over here. Team B, reset. They’re going to try to infiltrate your base again.”

He waits until the cadets from Team A shuffle around him before casting his gaze around in despair. “Britton. Why did you lead your squad through the right? Did we not just spend twenty minutes drilling an attack formation that originates from the left?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” she barks, puffing up her chest.

“Well, then, what happened?”

“Sir, I…” she casts a furtive gaze around at her friends before deflating. “I forgot, sir.”

“You forgot.”

“…yes.”

“You _realize_ that if this had been an actual military operation, you would’ve just gotten your entire squad killed, right? That, _I forgot,_ is hardly an excuse you can bring home to your Commanding Officer?”

“I’m sorry, Agent Washington,” she mumbles, head bowed.

He sighs. “Everyone, back in your original positions. We’re trying this again. Got it, Britton? _You’re_ trying this again. I want to see better results this time.”

Wash folds his arms as the cadets scamper off to their positions to reset. The cluster of abandoned buildings inside the capital was the perfect place to drill real-life training scenarios, although Wash is starting to wish he’d stuck to target practice.  He hadn’t been expecting them to be _good,_ but _this_ …he’s amazed, and privately impressed, that they’ve been able to hold their own against the Feds for this long.

The Feds hadn’t been anything spectacular, particularly not compared to the caliber of soldiers Wash was used to working with, but they had been adequate. They were certainly disciplined enough to get through a training session without bickering or complaining or forgetting their left from their right. Wash is once again grateful for Tucker and Grif’s advice, as he can’t imagine the disaster that would’ve ensued if he’d tried to train the two armies together right off the bat. He owes them big time.

Wash winces as Team A infiltrates the fake base with no small amount of unnecessary commotion, and Team B begins peppering them with fake, paintball bullets from above. He’d had a second, far calmer meeting with Kimball yesterday, and she’d shown him just how low their ammo was.

“It’s vital that we don’t use it in training, not even in target practice,” she’d explained. “I know the fake bullets aren’t as accurate, but if we run short…”

“I understand, General,” he’d said, and he’d hoped that his tone didn’t reveal the sickening way his stomach had swooped at seeing their startlingly low ammo supply. “We can ration this, but…no matter how careful we are, we’re _going_ to need more.”

“I know,” she said with a sigh. “That’s why I’m making it Agent Carolina’s top priority to find us more. Once we know where to look, we’ll work on retrieving it.”

“Do they know?” he’d asked. “Felix, and Locus. Do they know how low we are?”

“ _Felix—_ ” Kimball had spat the name “—Felix definitely knows. Doyle _claims_ that Locus wasn’t _‘privy to the Federal army’s supply information,’_ but I’m not holding my breath.”

Wash snaps himself out of the unhappy memory as the cadets open fire on each other.

“USE THE SIGHT ON YOUR RIFLE!” He hollers at one of the cadets on B Team— _Martinez_ —who has just emptied half the stock on his rifle with success whatsoever.

“I _AM!_ ” Martinez wails. “It’s these STUPID GUNS! I can’t do _anything_ with them! _FUCK_ this!”

He hurls the rifle aside, launches himself out the window of the crumbling building, and tackles one of the opposing cadets to the ground. Wash drags both hands down his visor as the two teams descend into an all-out brawl, all thoughts of stealth and completing the mission forgotten. “ _PRAJAPATI!_ ” he bellows as one of the Team A cadets kicks one of the opposing teammates straight through a wall. “PRAJAPATI, YOU DO _NOT_ RESORT TO HAND TO HAND IN A LIVE FIRE SITUATION UNLESS _ABSOLUTELY_ NECESSARY—”

He’s starting to wonder if there’s some issue with the audio receivers on the cadets’ helmets, because her response is to slam her fist into the side of another fully-armed cadet’s helmet. Wash throws up his hands and storms into the fray, hauling cadets off of each other and yelling until he’s hoarse. It isn’t until five minutes later when he catches a flash of white armor in the doorway that he realizes just how long their training session has run.

“EVERYONE STOP!” Wash yells, but it’s too late. It’s only then that he sees the fatal flaw in his carefully crafted training schedule: booking the New Republic and Federalist training sessions back to back was probably not the best idea. He’d been assuming everyone would finish up on time.

Of course, he’d _also_ been assuming that the cadets would know how to run a basic infiltration strategy, but in hindsight, he supposes that was expecting too much. Wash cringes as the group of Federalist soldiers he’s supposed to be training next come swaggering fully into the room, positioning themselves at the edges of the training floor. “Alright, alright, practice is over for today, everyone off the floor!” he bellows at the cadets, all of whom ignore him.

“God, what a mess,” one of the Federalist soldiers mutters under his breath. _Perry,_ Wash remembers from his time in the Federalist compound. One of Doyle’s captains.

Wash takes a moment to reflect in despair that the cadets, who were all mysteriously deaf to his screaming in their ears thirty seconds prior, mysteriously all pick up on a muttered whisper across the room. “What did you just say?” one of the paint-splattered cadets. _Prajapati,_ who sends teammates flying through walls.

“I _said_ you’re all a mess,” Perry responds, then casts a despairing gaze towards Wash. “Agent Washington, I am _so_ sorry that you have to train with these _losers_ —”

“Why, you _little_ —”

“Alright, alright,” Wash says loudly, snagging two of the cadets by the arms as they storm forward. “Captain Perry, I want five laps around the perimeter. These soldiers are all your _teammates_ now. I don’t want to hear another negative word about their training sessions, is that understood?”

“Understood, Agent Washington,” Perry mutters.

“Ooooooh, someone just got _told_ ,” Palomo snickers, and Wash closes his eyes briefly and counts to five before letting go of the cadets.

“Dismissed,” he says, exhausted, and the cadets slump out of the room. “I want to see everyone back at the same time tomorrow morning, got it— _I saw that, Palomol!_ ”

“Losers,” one of the other Feds mutters, and Wash rounds on him.

“Captain Ali. Was I not clear? You are all on the same team now. Negative comments towards your teammates will not be tolerated. Now, I want ten laps around the perimeter, from _all_ of you, and if I hear one more word about the New Republic soldiers, it’ll be another ten for each smart remark. Understood?”

They take off without another word.

His training session with the Feds is just as bad, if not worse. He can’t understand it at first—they were nowhere _near_ this terrible in the compound, but as the hours drag, he realizes what’s so wrong. They’re overcompensating, trying their best to show off and prove that they’re better than the New Republic soldiers. Wash watches in growing exasperation as their infiltration mission stretches on and on, all of the Feds frozen in their individual hiding spots, unwilling to make a sound.

“It’s not hide and seek!” he yells, after five minutes of absolute stillness. “Ali, move your squad up!”

Ali does not, in fact, move his squad up. Ali and his squad spend another five minutes in dead silence, communicating solely via a series of complex hand signals that Wash begins to suspect they spent at least an hour practicing prior to this disastrous practice. When Perry stands up and begins to add leg signal into the mix, Wash throws up his hands, grabs his training rifle, and storms into structure.

“A mysterious soldier has just found his way into your ranks, and you have no idea which side he’s on!” He rounds the corner and fires a round of fake bullets at Perry, who crumbles out of the ridiculous one-legged perch he’s currently standing in. “Come on, figure it out, move it!”

Twenty laps, two spark fires, and one screaming match between the Captains later, the soldiers are blessedly filing out of the training room. Wash stares blankly at the wall for several minutes—he can’t remember the last time he felt this exhausted—before sighing and beginning the trek to the indoor training facilities. Tucker’s first lesson is next, and Wash thinks it might be good to get there a little early to set up. He realizes he has no idea what time it is and panics, eyes flicking to the clock on his HUD, but relaxes when he realizes he has a few minutes. He enters the empty training room and begins removing his armor—his _paint_ splattered armor, he notes in dismay—stacking it neatly on a bench. He’s spent a fair amount of time writing up what he thinks it will be beneficial for Tucker to learn, and since he favors close-quarters combat, Wash thinks starting with arteries and pressure points while outside of armor would be best, before moving on to isolating these areas in armor. He’s just finished changing into sweats and a t-shirt when an indignant voice makes him jump.

“And just _what_ do you think you’re doing, buster?”

He whirls to see Donut looming in the doorway, hands on his hips.

Wash glances around the room blankly, trying to see what he’s doing that’s so incriminating. “I’m…getting ready for my next training session?”

“Hmmmmppph,” Donut snorts. “ _Hmmph._ Skipping lunch. _As_ I suspected.”

“Oh…” Truth be told, the thought to go grab food hadn’t even occurred to him until now. “I’ll grab something after—”

“You will _not_.” Donut sweeps into the room. “I _know_ this game, bud. You did this all the time when we were with the Feds, and _I_ , for one am not going to stand for it!”

“Donut—”

“You’ve been training all morning and—”

“How do you know I’ve been training all morning?”

“ _Wash_ , the training schedule isn’t a secret.”

Wash supposes not. “Oh. Well, that’s a fair point.”

“Besides, everyone’s been sneaking past all morning to get a look at how you’re faring with the Feds and News. We’re taking bets on how long it takes for them to play nice.”

Wash freezes in the middle of folding up his survival suit. “You—what? Donut! Who’s taking bets!”

“Well, the _gang_ of course!” Donut says. Wash can only assume him and the rest of the Sim Troopers. “Grif is wagering a hard _never,_ but Caboose has faith. He says everyone will be _best_ friends by tomorrow at noon.”

Wash groans. “Great. Just great. So, you all got to witness that disaster.”

“Well, _yeah._ Us and some of the other Feds and News who came by.”

“Some of—you know what, never mind. I don’t really want to know how many people saw that.”

Donut sighs, popping the seals on his helmet and setting it on the bench next to Wash. Wash shifts a little uncomfortably—he still finds it difficult to look Donut in the face, particularly when Donut’s smiling at him like they’re best friends. The feeling of guilt only gets worse when Donut presses a ration bar into his hand. “C’mon, eat.”

“I’m fine,” Wash says automatically.

Donut clicks his tongue. “Listen, mister, either you eat that bar like a normal person, or I’m going to cram it _right_ down your throat. Which do you prefer?”

Wash sighs, taking a seat on the bench and opening the ration bar. Donut beams as he takes an unenthusiastic bite.

“That’s better. You have to eat _something._ Tucker is just going to wear you right _out_ otherwise. Golly, that boy is enthusiastic!”

Wash pauses mid-bite. “Huh?”

“Well, I’ve never _seen_ him so excited! He’s been looking forward to this training session all morning.”

“…he _has?_ ”

“Sure has.” Something seems to occur to Donut, and he sits down next to Wash, looking so serious that Wash sits up in alarm. “Wash. I’ll keep everyone from watching through the door, okay? Give you two some privacy.”

“What…we don’t need privacy…I mean we _do,_ but—not—why would anyone want to watch my training session with Tucker?”

Donut looks at him so incredulously that Wash feels a little defensive. “Wash. _Please._ People would _pay_ to see that.”

“But _why?_ ”

“Because of the Freckles Shake thing!”

“What— _why do people keep saying it like that?!_ Like it’s a _thing?_ ”

“Wash. It’s a thing.” Donut sighs— _dreamily,_ Wash notes with horror—and continues. “I only wish I had been conscious. _Kennedy says_ it was the most _romantic_ thing he’s ever seen!”

Jesus Christ. “Okay, _look,_ Donut. It would be nice to not have an audience today—no, not because of that!” he adds hastily when Donut claps his hands to his mouth in delight. “I’m showing Tucker some knife work, and I think he might be a little nervous.”

“Ohhhhh.” Donut lowers his hands and nods wisely. “I see. _Absolutely,_ Wash. I’ll keep everyone off your backs.”

“I don’t mean…” Wash pauses, suddenly awkward. “I’m not asking you to go out of your way—”

“Wash, you can ask me for a favor. That’s what friends do! They ask each other for favors, and—” he glances pointedly at the ration bar that Wash hasn’t finished. “They take care of each other.”

Wash drops his eyes at that and, for lack of anything else to say, devours the rest of his ration bar. “There,” he grunts, crumpling the wrapper in his fist. “Happy?”

Donut looks nothing short of thrilled. “Much better! I don’t want to have to track you down about this again, understood?”

“Alright, alright…”

Donut stands, then pauses before resealing his helmet to look at him imploringly. “Wash, when are we gonna hang out?”

Wash startles. “I…what?”

“You know. Hang out. Have some wine and cheese and just _talk_. Like we used to.”

Wash cannot recall a single time ever having wine and cheese with Donut. “When did we—”

Donut waves a hand. “Well, we didn’t have any wine and cheese, but we would hang out all the time at the compound!”

Wash supposes, in retrospect, that was true: Donut seemed to have a knack for finding all of Wash’s favorite brooding spots at the Federalist compound, and recalls many evenings when they’d sit together. He’s a little surprised that Donut wants to recreate those moments: if he calls correctly, Wash had been nothing but irritable the entire time they were with the Feds. “Oh. Well. I guess we can…hang out…soon. If. You want.”

“Oh, _really?_ Oh, I’d love that! Wash, I will _find_ us wine and cheese. Okay? I’ll _do_ it. You let me know when you have a free night and we are going to _gossip!_ ”

And with a winning smile, Donut flounces out of the training room to leave Wash blinking in confusion. He shakes his head a little, getting up to stretch, and is still a little distracted when Tucker opens the door to the training room and leans against the doorframe. “ _Hey_ there, Wash.”

“Hi, Tucker.”

“Out of your armor already, I see? _Nice._ I dig the enthusiasm.”

Wash throws a half glance his way. “I got here a little early…where’s Epsilon? Is he back with Carolina?”

Epsilon materializes over Tucker’s shoulder, turning to glare at his friend. “Oh no. I’m still here.” He turns his helmeted gaze to Wash, looks him up and down, and says, “NOPE,” before vanishing without another word.

Wash blinks. “What was that about?”

“Don’t worry about Church,” Tucker says. He’s still leaning against the doorframe, one arm propped over his head and the other on his hip. “We’ll just pretend he’s _nooooot_ even here. Unless you like an audience. I’m cool with either.”

“Right….” Wash says slowly. He stares at Tucker. Tucker stares back. “So…are you going to come in here, or…”

“You bet I am,” Tucker says enthusiastically, and he finally pushes off the wall, pulling the door deliberately shut behind him.

Wash blinks again. Maybe Donut was right, about Tucker being excited for his training session, although Wash can’t figure out why. “So as I’m sure you already know, training was a disaster this morning,” he says, as Tucker walks over to where he’s stretching and glances pointedly at Wash’s paint-splattered armor.

Tucker makes a sympathetic noise. “Yeah, not surprised in the slightest, dude. Even the Feds?”

 “Even the Feds. I can’t imagine what would’ve happened if I tried to train them together.” Wash pauses, then grudgingly continues. “I’m sorry I doubted you and Grif. I owe you.”

Tucker shrugs easily. “That’s okay. I can think of a few things you can do to make it up to me.”

“I owe you guys a morning off at least,” Wash agrees, propping his leg up on the bench to stretch his hamstring.

“I can think of something a little more exciting than a morning off.”

“Well, just let me know what you and Grif want, and I’ll decide if it’s reasonable—”

“Not _Grif,_ just me.”

“Hmmm?” Wash asks absently, stretching out his other leg. “What about you?”

And then he blinks, because Tucker props his leg up in the bench right next to Wash, leaning an elbow on his knee. “I said, I can think of a few things you can do to _make it up to_ _me_. You know. _Just_ you. _Just_ me.”

Wash pauses mid-stretch. There’s some part of his brain nagging at him, trying to clue him in on some long-forgotten social cue that he should probably be picking up on, but he’s a little distracted by the fact that Tucker’s crotch is, for some reason, _really_ close to his face. “Uh…okay? Just…let me know, I guess?”

“Don’t worry,” Tucker says, still in that same weird voice. “I _will_.”

And then, thank goodness, he takes his leg down and moves back, stretching his arms above his head. Wash doesn’t have much time to get his thoughts together, though, because five seconds later Tucker is removing his helmet. Wash wouldn’t normally take much notice of this, except for the fact that Tucker is making what seems to be an unnecessary a production out of it. He pops the seals and removes it slowly, and tosses his head, the ropes of his hair flying all over the place before coming to rest on his shoulders. He flashes a thousand-watt smile at Wash and moves on to removing his gauntlets.

“….hellooooooooo?”

Wash startles and gives his head a little shake, turning to stare at Epsilon, who has just materialized on top of Tucker’s discarded helmet. “Huh?”

“I _said,_ make sure he takes it easy,” Epsilon says. “I’ll monitor his vitals, but this is the first major workout he’s had—”

“It is _not_ ,” Tucker says irritably. “I worked out with the guys yesterday!”

“Tucker, one lap around the training room and a few minutes lifting weights is not working out.”

“Oh, well, I guess _you_ would know, right?”

“Whatever.” Epsilon turns back to Wash. “Anyway. Just watch him.”

“Of course I’m going to watch him,” Wash says, then frowns at Tucker. “Lifting weights? Should you be lifting weights this soon?”

Tucker pauses in the process of unsnapping his shinguard. “ _Oh_ my god. They were like, the lightest weights ever, calm down.”

“Hmmm,” Wash says, but lets it go. “Well, we’ll mostly be focusing on technique and cardio today—”

“ _Mm_ , sounds good to me—”

“—so it won’t be too strenuous on your wound. Oh, and you should probably change out of your survival suit, the exercise will make more sense if you’re…” He trails off as Tucker thumbs the release on his suit and wriggles out of it in record time, kicking it off to the side. “…not wearing it,” he finishes.

“Dude, no complaints there,” Tucker says. He puts a hand on his hip and ruffles up his dreads, making absolutely no move to put on something more than the boxer briefs and tank he’s currently wearing. “I like to let things _breathe_ during training, know what I mean?”

“Tucker,” Wash says, and he feels his face heat up a little as Tucker bends over and starts stretching in what Wash can’t help but notice is an unnecessarily obscene manner. “For the love of god, _put some pants on_.”

 Tucker glances around, widening his eyes in what Wash is pretty certain is fake surprise. “Dammit. I forgot to bring my sweats!”

Wash lifts an eyebrow, rummaging in the bag he’s brought and wordlessly holding out a pair of sweats to Tucker.

“Dude. You went into my room and packed some clothes? Like my _mom?_ ”

“Well, it’s a good thing I did, isn’t it?”

“That’s _one_ word for it,” Tucker mutters, and reaches out to snag the pants from Wash.

He’s not sure what happens next, because Tucker trips over seemingly _nothing_ and stumbles forward. Wash reaches out instinctively to catch him, and Tucker must be more off balance than he thought, because he does a fair amount of grabbing at Wash’s arms and shoulders. The next thing Wash knows, Tucker’s in his arms, leaning against his chest with his hands gripping Wash’s shoulders. “Wow. _Thanks,_ dude. That was a _close_ one.”

His beaming smile is inches from Wash’s face, and Wash isn’t sure if he’s more distracted by _that_ or the fact that Tucker is almost _naked_ and, for some reason, making _absolutely no effort_ to pull away or steady himself. “Um,” he says, and wishes his face didn’t feel so hot. “Um. Okay,” he says, and blinks as Tucker ups his smile to about a billion watts. _Who smiles like that?_ Wash thinks, feeling rather dazed, and Tucker _still hasn’t moved_ —

Someone clears their throat and Wash jumps. He makes sure Tucker is steady on his feet before stepping away hastily to put some distance between the two of them, but a quick glance around confirms that it’s only Epsilon, perched on top of Tucker’s helmet. “You guys gonna get started training, or are you just gonna screw around all day?”

Wash tries to steady his pounding heart and Tucker glares murderously at Epsilon. _There’s no reason to feel so nervous and guilty,_ he tells himself. Tucker slipped, and Wash steadied him. Normal. Any normal person would have done the same.

_Kennedy says it was the most romantic thing he’s ever seen._

_Wash._ Please. _People would pay to see that._

He steps back even further, despite the fact that Tucker’s already several feet away, but Tucker doesn’t notice. He’s still scowling at Epsilon. “Really, dude?”

“Just an innocent question,” Epsilon says blithely.

Tucker rolls his eyes. “So, like, are _you_ just gonna stand there and watch, or…?”

“I don’t know,” Epsilon says, leveling his gaze at Tucker. “Am I?”

“Church,” Tucker grits out, “Log. Off. _Now._ ”

“Don’t tell me what to do!”

“Dude, seriously! It’s gonna distract me if you’re just sitting there!”

“That’s what I’m hoping for,” Epsilon mutters.

Wash looks between the two of them, confused. “Okay, look, we do need to get this going—”

“Church, come on,” Tucker whines. “Just fucking log off and monitor my vitals or whatever the fuck from in here, _please?_ ”

“Alright,” Wash says. Tucker has, blessedly, shimmied into the sweatpants, making it a little easier to think. “Tucker, come here. Epsilon, _goodbye._ ”

With a final muttered curse, Epsilon vanishes. Tucker shuffles over. “Don’t know why he won’t just leave already,” he mutters.

“I’m sure he’s just worried about you, Tucker.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Tucker gestures towards the rubber training knife in Wash’s hand. “Alright, so, teach me your ways, or whatever. I’m sure I’ve got a _lot_ to learn.” He follows this up with a wink that Wash chooses to ignore.

“Okay.” Wash straightens. “You’ve made it clear that you favor close quarters combat, so we’re going to work on getting you comfortable with that. I can’t teach you how to use your sword, but I _can_ teach you to use knives.”

“Yeah, you don’t need to give me a speech, I know, that’s why we’re here,” Tucker says, waving a hand carelessly. “And I still don’t really get it. I mean, I don’t use _knives,_ so what’s the point in—”

“Felix uses knives,” Wash says, and Tucker’s mouth closes with an audible click of his teeth. “Felix uses them, and if you’re fighting him—or _anyone_ who uses them—then you need to learn how to control the blade. If you lose your sword, then you need to learn how to take the knife away from him, and use it against him. You need to learn all of this in armor, and out of armor, because if you’re taken captive, then no one is going to let you keep your armor. You need to learn major arteries, and pressure points, and just how much blood a person can lose before they pass out. Do you know why you’re here now?”

“Yep,” Tucker says, his blasé tone completely gone. “ _Yep_. Read you loud and clear. Knives. Let’s do it.”

 “Now.” Wash hefts the training knife in his hand, testing its weight. “I want to jump right into knife evasion today. Just to get you used to moving while a knife is coming at you. It’s natural after an injury such as yours to develop a fear of the weapon or situation—”

Tucker straightens. “What? I’m not _afraid_ of knives now—”

“And the longer we avoid training the scenario that led to your injury, the more difficult it’ll be to jump back in.”

“Okay, I mean, that’s fine, ‘cause I’m not afraid of knives, so it really doesn’t make a difference.”

Wash shrugs. “Okay, great, let’s get to it then.”

He snags his datapad from the gym bench while Tucker fidgets in his peripheral. “Come on, sit down for a minute,” he says, and Tucker shuffles over to join him on the bench. Wash regards him for a moment, drumming the datapad against his thigh before plunging forward.

“The first thing you need to understand about a knife fight is that you _are_ going to get cut.”

Tucker’s head jerks back at that, eyebrows slanting down. “What? Dude. What the fuck is the point of all this training if I’m just going to get carved up like a goddamn turkey anyway?”

“The point is,” Wash continues calmly, “that it’s just something you need to be prepared for. It doesn’t take a lot of skill to use a knife and, even if you’re fighting someone relatively inexperienced, you will still get cut. If you’re fighting someone who is skilled, then the likelihood of you bleeding is even higher.”

“Fucking great.”

“The point _is_ , you don’t want to drag a knife fight out. You want to get yourself out of that situation as fast as possible. And the quickest way to do that is to cut someone where it matters.” He opens his datapad, motioning for Tucker to lean in. “I want you to look at this chart. These are the major arteries of the body…”

* * *

“Tucker, your footwork is atrocious. You’re taking three steps when you should only be taking one.”

“What does it _matter_ as long as I get the fuck out of the way?!”

Wash closes his eyes briefly as Tucker paces tiny circles, hands on his hips and breathing hard. Two hours into their training session and Tucker still hadn’t lost the tension that had taken over his body from the moment Wash had told him that getting cut in a knife fight was guaranteed. They had moved from targeting major arteries to pivots, and while Tucker is getting better, there’s a definite hesitation weighting his movements down.

“It matters because you’re wasting precious time,” Wash says. “You want to be close in knife fighting. If you’re too far, and your opponent knows how to throw knives, you’re in just as much danger—”

For the first time, Tucker brightens a little. “Ooooh, can we learn that? I wanna learn to throw knives, like—” he mimes throwing one across the room. “That’s _soooo_ badass.”

“I’ll _show_ you,” Wash says, “once you get these pivots down.”

Tucker’s frown is back. “Ugh. So fucking never, then.”

“You keep pivoting away too far. Think of yourself like…like your opponent’s shadow. Stay close. Close enough that they can’t cut you.” He tosses the knife to Tucker. “Here. We’re going to try an evasion drill. Try to attack me.”

Tucker glances between the knife and Wash. “What, like, stab you, or slash, or…?”

“Whatever. Do anything you can to try to cut me. I’m going to keep moving.”

He waits patiently for Tucker to move. When he does, Wash sidesteps the attack. He stays close to Tucker’s back, forcing him into wide swings and downward slashes. “What the fuck, dude,” Tucker mutters. “I can’t get anywhere near you.”

“That’s the point,” Wash says, and lets the exercise continue on a little longer before swiftly disarming Tucker. “Do you see what I did?”

“Yeah, some ridiculous _ninja_ bullshit.”

“I stayed close. I forced you into big movements that allowed me to disarm you. I forced _you_ to move, and I didn’t let you box me into a corner.”

“Hmmm.” Tucker regards him. “Okay, I guess that’s pretty cool. You’re really fast.”

“You’re fast too,” Wash says, and it’s true. “You just don’t know how to use your speed yet.”

“Okay…” Tucker fidgets a little. “But like, you’re gonna _teach_ me how, right?”

 “Of course I am. I want you to try this,” Wash says, and turns to the bag he’d brought, rummaging for some chalk he’d found earlier. “Let’s put it all together. I’m going to try to touch you with this training knife, and you’re going to do whatever you can to stop me. Pivots, disarms, whatever. Okay?”

“Yeah yeah, sure, that sounds—wait, what are you doing?”

Wash continues to cover the blades of the knife liberally in thick red chalk. “This way, if I nick you, you’ll be able to see where the cut is.”

All at once, Tucker’s nervous energy multiplies. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

“I think it’ll help drive the point home.”

“Well…”

“It’s not real, Tucker,” Wash says. “We’re just training.”

Tucker flares up at once. “Yeah, I _know_ that, I’m not an idiot, Wash.”

“Okay,” Wash says easily, standing up to square up with him. “Ready?”

Tucker bounces impatiently on the balls of his feet across from him. “Yeah yeah, let’s fucking get to it.”

Wash keeps things relatively easy at first, giving Tucker a chance to get his nerves out, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Tucker’s movements are clumsy and erratic, and when Wash draws a long red stripe across his bicep with the training knife, Tucker stumbles back, staring at it. He looks up at Wash accusingly. “You’re going easy on me.”

“I’m not,” Wash says calmly. “I’m just starting slow.”

“Yeah, well, _Felix_ isn’t gonna start slow, is he?” Tucker pauses, scowling. “Actually, he probably _would._ Playing with his food before eating it and all that shit.”

“Tucker, _focus_.”

“I am focused! Come on, fucking try to stab me!”

 _Rule four. We don’t pull our punches in training,_ Maine’s memory whispers, and Wash hesitates. He doesn’t know if pushing Tucker will work—there’s every chance that he could shut down, but the longer their training session goes, the more Wash thinks it might be what Tucker needs.

He lunges straight at Tucker’s ribs with the knife, and Tucker just barely scrambles out of the way. Wash follows him back with a downward slash and catches his shoulder. Tucker’s movements become less dynamic as the exercise continues, his steps taking him solely backwards instead of varying the directions like they’d just trained. It’s all too easy to draw paint Tucker’s skin red with chalk, to box him into a corner, and the second Tucker feels his back hit the wall he tries to pivot under Wash’s arm.

Wash catches him with a slash to the midsection and Tucker completely freezes, staring at the bright red chalk marks across his white shirt. Wash takes advantage of his distraction and pushes him back against the wall, the training knife under his throat. “None of these wounds will kill you, but you’re losing blood and your enemy has you cornered. What do you do?”

“I—” Tucker flinches hard as Wash lays the training knife across his throat. “I—wait, just—let me think—”

Wash tilts Tucker’s chin up with the blade. “Come on. You can get out of this. Focus.”

“I’m trying!” Tucker jerks a little in his grip, but not too much, as if afraid of actually getting cut. “Wash, I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to do, _I don’t_ —”

“You do,” Wash tells him, and he hates himself a little at the genuine panic in Tucker’s eyes. “Tucker, you _do_.”

Tucker starts to struggle in earnest, and the training knife draws a long red stripe across his throat. “Wash, I can’t, I can’t, _I can’t_ —”

He fists his hands in Wash’s shirt, pushing him away and then tugging him back, as if he can’t decide whether he wants space or not. Wash lets the knife fall to the ground and puts his hands on Tucker’s shoulders as Tucker bows his head and shakes and shakes.

“There’s no shame in being afraid of the thing that almost killed you,” Wash tells him quietly. Tucker shakes his head a little, still hunched over with his hands wrapped in Wash’s shirt. “I was tortured once, with fire, and…it was a long time before I could be around fire without flinching. It was a problem on missions, with explosions and…I was ashamed. I felt that I should be better, that I should be able to just bounce back but…Tucker, it’s not that easy.”

“It should be,” Tucker mutters into his chest. “It fucking _should_ be, fuck, I don’t have time to _deal_ with this shit, Wash! I can’t—I need to be—I have to be better. I have to be better than this.”

“That’s why we’re doing this,” Wash tells him. “So that we can all be better.”

He lets Tucker stay there for a while, his forehead pressed tight to Wash’s chest, before putting a hand under Tucker’s chin and lifting his head up. “You ready to try this again?”

Tucker’s eyes are wide and haunted, but they are dry, and he nods. He steps back away from Wash, giving himself a little shake. Wash watches his eyes flick down, taking in the harsh red chalk lines all over his body, watches those same eyes steady, and when Tucker glances back up, his fists are clenched, his eyes are nothing but hard bronzed steel, and Wash has never seen anything so beautiful, and so bold, and so brave.

“Yeah. I’m ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you, as always, to my beta and best friend [Melissa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniMax/pseuds/MiniMax) for her tireless work beta'ing this fic. She's betaed all of my longfics so far, and trust me, they are all the better for it.
> 
> (Fun fact: cadet Prajapati is Melissa's Volleyball, who you can find her her fics! Rumor has it she's got a longfic coming so get hype- I know I am.)


	7. Chapter 7

The thing is, the Fed captains wouldn’t be all that bad if they weren’t so _goddamn annoying_.

Despite a fair amount of badgering from both him and Grif, Wash’s agreement to train the Federalist and New Republic cadets separately for a week hadn’t extended to the Captains. Truth be told, they didn’t have any real reason to train separately—as Wash kept pointing out, he’d trained both groups, and didn’t need to establish a baseline.

There was also an endless litany of:

“You guys need to help set a _good_ example. If the cadets see their _Captains_ training together, it might help melt the ice a little faster.”

After the disastrous first few days of training Wash had with said cadets, Tucker decides it’s best to let the whole thing go. “Dude, let’s just get it over with,” he’d muttered to Grif at breakfast, when he’d seen Grif opening his mouth to whine at Wash yet again about their daily training with the Feds. Wash had been extra quiet that morning, staring off blankly while stirring a sugarless cup of coffee. He had looked _exceptionally_ sleep deprived, and Tucker didn’t have the heart to complain.

“It will be so fun, Gruf!” Caboose had yelled, yanking Grif bodily out of his seat. It was far, _far_ too early for Caboose to be speaking so loudly, but it got Red Team up and moving, and it got Wash to crack a distracted smile, so Tucker let it go. “We are going to see our new best friends today!”

 _< I mean, they’re way too uptight, right?> _he asks Church now, watching the Federalist captains do a series of perfectly synchronized push-ups and pull-ups.

_< I think uptight is an understatement.>_

Tucker sighs. Wash had only been at one of their workouts this past week, as there wasn’t anything specific they needed to work on just yet. “It’s more important that you all get used to spending some time together. Just keep up your baseline. Running, strength training, maybe some hand to hand. The usual.”

 _The usual_ seems to include the Feds doing something on one side of the room while the sim troopers dicked around on the other side. _< I can’t live like this,>_ Tucker thinks in despair. _< It’s too tense. I gotta _do _something. >_

_< You can always try hitting on one of them, too.>_

_< Shut the fuck up, Church.>_

Tucker perks up slightly as he notices Captain Perry subtly glancing Caboose’s way. Caboose isn’t doing anything spectacular as far as Tucker can see, and it takes him a moment to realize just why Perry is staring: Caboose is bench pressing a _FUCK-_ ton of weight, humming merrily all the while. Tucker’s so used to Caboose’s ridiculous feats of strengths that he forgets how they look to other people.

“Go sit on the bar,” he calls to Perry, who jumps and instantly pretends he wasn’t watching. Tucker rolls his eyes. “Dude, for _real_. Watch.”

He walks over to where Caboose is resting between sets and climbs on the bar. Caboose unracks the bar again and casually pumps out a few more reps. Perry’s jaw _drops_ and Tucker can’t really blame him. It’s pretty goddamn impressive, particularly when taking into account the fact that Caboose isn’t in power armor at _all_ and Tucker still has random bits of his on.

“He could probably pop Locus’s _skull_ in between his hands,” one of the other Captains— _Fitz_ —says, his eyes going wide.

Silence. Sarge pauses in his own lifting to eyeball Fitz. “Hmph. Like the way you think, boy.” He straightens suddenly, eyes taking on a maniacal gleam. “Well…now there’s a training exercise with some practical use!”

Tucker blinks. “What is?”

“Training for that exact scenario! Crushing the skulls of our enemies between our very hands!”

Church pops up on top of Tucker’s helmet. “Uh, and just how are we going to _train_ for that?”

“It’s watermelon season,” Ali says suddenly, and they all turn to stare at him.

“ _Genius_ ,” Grif breathes, and Simmons straightens in alarm.

“Wait—you can’t _really_ be thinking of—”

“Simmons,” Grif says despairingly, “there are _watermelons. Here._ On. This. _Planet._ ” Grif glances at Ali. “In the capital?” he asks, desperation plain.

“In the capital.”

“There are watermelons _in the capital,_ Simmons. Who are _we_ to let them go to waste?”

“But you _are_ going to waste them! You’re going to—to—”

“Crush them like the skulls of our enemies between our very _hands!_ ” Sarge reiterates, and Simmons gestures.

“Yes! _That!_ That’s wasting them!”

Grif waves a hand. “We can still eat the remains.”

“ _Gross,_ Grif.”

“Alright, enough with the chit-chat!” Sarge says impatiently. “We need an infiltration strategy! Retrieving these watermelons will take all of our strength and skill—”

“They’re not that far, actually,” Fitz ventures, but Sarge barrels on.

“You guys are idiots,” Church mutters, and logs off again.

He doesn’t stay gone for long. Tucker estimates that he reappears at least ten times in the next thirty minutes, during which Sarge details their strategy to retrieve the watermelons. He pulls a whiteboard seemingly out of nowhere—Tucker _literally_ turned around for two seconds and when he turned back, Sarge was enthusiastically scribbling on a gigantic board. He attempts to draw a rough map of the capital before Donut wrests the marker out of his hands and sketches out a far more detailed map, complete with a key and scale.

Two dry runs and a snack break later, they have all retrieved the various pieces of their armor that have ended up scattered all over the training room, and are ready to go. Simmons convinces them that at least a few have to stay— _“If Kimball or Doyle comes in here and finds us all gone we’ll be in serious trouble, and I don’t even want to_ think _about Wash’s reaction—”_ so Tucker, Caboose, Simmons, and Patil end up staying behind.

There’s a close call when Kimball pops her head into the training room to check on them—Tucker barely manages to intercept her at the door and spin some bullshit story about how, _if you come in now, the Feds are gonna get all defensive, c’mon, we’re just getting through to them—_ but in the end she leaves _._

Two hours later, the rest of the guys are sneaking back into the training room, dragging bags of watermelons behind them.

“Couple of close calls!” Sarge says. He’s still got his helmet on, but Tucker can imagine all too well the maniacal look in his eyes. “Barely managed to escape with our lives—who _knows_ what sort of diabolical torture the enemy would have subjected us to!”

“Uh, _who_ exactly are you referring to as the enemy?” Church asks.

Sarge waves a hand. “Those who would’ve stopped us from completing our mission!”

“And—to be clear—by _mission_ you mean stealing a few dozen watermelons and smuggling them into the training room to…”

Church trails off as a fascinated Ali picks up a watermelon and hands it to Caboose. With nary an effort, Caboose takes the watermelon, squeezes enthusiastically, and—

_POP!_

The watermelon explodes, showering them all with squishy red chunks, and after a moment of shocked silence, they all burst into laughter.

“…to do _that,_ ” Church finishes, but his tone is less exasperated and more intrigued. “Huh. _Nice,_ Caboose.”

“Thank you Church!” Caboose says, and in his enthusiasm, picks up and bursts another watermelon.

It’s the most fun Tucker can remember having in ages. They all take turns trying to pop the watermelons—the biggest shock comes when Patil, whom Tucker is certain hasn’t said one word up until this point, pops a watermelon in two seconds, steps back and goes, “ _Neat_.”

Donut gets innovative and sends a watermelon flying across the room to smash against the wall, and they experiment with crushing and stomping and following up with kicking and smashing. All methods prove to have excellent success rates of explosion upon impact.

Tucker eventually unseals his helmet and sits down next to Grif to join him in eating watermelon chunks.

“What losers,” Grif observes, sucking the juices from the remains of his busted out rind.

“Right?” Tucker nods in satisfaction. “Don’t even know they got played.”

They share a look and bump their empty rinds together because, like, _damn,_ mission _accomplished_. Donut and Perry are in a deep discussion involving the finer points of baseball and throwing, Caboose and Patil are still popping watermelons, Simmons is showing Ali his cyborg arm, Fitz and Sarge are in a highly enthusiastic debate over just how alike a human skull is to a watermelon, Wash and Carolina are observing from the doorway, and—

Tucker sits up straight as Wash’s jaw drops. He and Carolina are both out of their armor and covered in sweat and, judging by the unhappy look on Wash’s face, were probably just training hand-to-hand. Although, it might have more to do with the fact that the training room and Captains are currently splattered in chunks of sticky watermelon, but Tucker can’t quite be sure.

He makes a slashing motion across his throat when Wash opens his mouth to probably unleash hell. Wash hesitates, frowning at him, and Tucker tries to convey with a series of hand gestures that— _Dude! we’re all getting along and working together, okay, we actually pulled off a successful mission and I know it was over something stupid but still, no one noticed us dragging like a billion watermelons across the capital so it obviously worked and if you say something they’re gonna get all uptight and freaked out—_

He’s not sure just how much of that gets across, but Wash puts a hand on Carolina’s elbow and mutters something to her. With a final exasperated look around, the two of them melt away, and Tucker falls back against the wall in relief.

An hour later, both the training room and their armor is reasonably free of watermelon, and the Fed captains are all noticeably less wound up than they were at the beginning of the day. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.  A few more training sessions like that, a couple beers, a bottle or two of whiskey, maybe even an _under-the-radar_ party, and—

“Well, well. Hello, Captains.”

Wash materializes out of the shadows, where he was seemingly waiting for them all to appear outside of the training room. The rest of the sim troopers falter behind Tucker before Grif whispers, “ _RUN!_ ” and they all take off down the hallway, dragging the Federalist captains with them.

“What— _COME BACK HERE!_ ” Wash bellows, but they’re gone. Tucker turns too late—he was entirely too distracted by the fact that Wash’s sweaty t-shirt was sticking to his chest and shoulders, because _really_ , who has _arms_ like that? Tucker had felt like he was grabbing onto an iron railing when he’d executed his smooth stumble into Wash’s arms the other day.

 _< Smooth is_ one _word for it, >_ Church mutters, but Tucker ignores him.

Wash reaches out to snag his wrist and although Tucker could pull away—he’s in power armor and Wash _isn’t_ , after all—he doesn’t. “Okay, look,” Tucker says. “I know how that must’ve looked—”

“I’m really _not_ sure that you _do_ —”

“But like, we actually all worked as a team! And we actually got the Feds to remove the sticks from their asses—well, maybe not _entirely,_ but we made a solid start. I mean, who knows, we may actually _need_ to crush an enemy’s head in between our hands someday, so—”

“That’s what you were trying to simulate?” Wash asks incredulously. “Crushing an enemy’s skull between your hands?”

“…yes?”

There’s a pause. “That was Sarge’s idea, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. Well. Kind of. Fitz too, I guess.”

There’s a longer pause this time, before Wash sighs. “Well,” he says slowly. “I suppose there was no harm done…unless, of course, you count the fact that you wasted a lot of food.”

“We didn’t! We saved all the chunks that were still in the rinds, c’mon, we’re not total assholes. Everyone took a portion and we’re gonna share them with our cadets.” He fumbles with the bag in his hands before withdrawing a chunk of watermelon and holding it out to Wash, flashing his most winning smile. “Watermelon, Wash?”

Wash gives him a long, considering look before reaching out to take the watermelon. “Thank you, Captain Tucker,” he says, turning and walking down the hall and _holy shit_ Tucker cannot believe they got away with that.

He watches Wash leave, unable to stop the stupid grin that’s spreading across his face. Wash should really walk around without his armor on more, he decides as he continues the walk back to his room. It’s a goddamn _capital crime_ , is what it is, the way the armor hides his frankly _ridiculous_ physique. Tucker thinks his favorite part might be the chiseled jawline. Or the broad shoulders. Or the tight-

Epsilon flickers to life in front of him. “Oh my god, Tucker, get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Hey, _you’re_ the one who decided you had to stay and babysit me,” says Tucker, not phased in the slightest. “There’s no such thing as censorship up in here.”

“Well, _clearly_.” Epsilon regards him suspiciously. “Alright Tucker, _look_. Since you’re clearly not gonna drop this…I know what you’re thinking- _unfortunately_ \- and I’m not so sure it’s a great idea.”

“Are you _kidding_ me? It’s the best idea I’ve ever had!” says Tucker enthusiastically, his mind wandering a little.

Epsilon shudders. “Okay, I think I wanna go back to Carolina now.”

“ _Good_. I mean, _I_ could care less if you want to watch, but I don’t think Wash is into that sort of thing.” He doesn’t actually know what Wash is into, which, huh, _that_ was going to be fun to discover. “Seriously, dude. If you’re thinking I won’t fuck him with you in my head, you’re wrong. I really couldn’t care less.”

“Yeah, well. There’s no way _Wash_ is gonna do you if he knows that I’m here, sooo.”

Which, Tucker realizes with dawning horror, is a good point. “Wait, is that your evil plan here? Stick around and mess up my game so that I never get a chance with Wash?”

“ _Bingo_.”

With one word, the lazy, comfortable atmosphere between the two of them turns tense and angry. Tucker stops walking, spinning to face Epsilon. “Dude, what the fuck is your _problem?!_ Seriously! This isn’t funny anymore!”

Epsilon squares up with him. “Look. Wash has been through a lot. We’re in the middle of a _war_ here, and he’s got a lot on his plate.”

 “Waaaait a second,” Tucker says slowly. “Are you… _lecturing_ me on how to treat Wash?”

“I’m just _saying_ —”

“What are you, his big _brother_ or something?”

Epsilon folds his arms over his chest and glares at Tucker. “The _last_ thing he needs is someone he trusts messing him around.”

Tucker’s mouth falls open. “I’m not gonna mess him around!”

“He really cares about you, and if you’re just looking for a quick lay—”

“Is _that_ what this is about?” Tucker interrupts. “You think I’m gonna fuck with his head?”

“ _You are fucking with his head!_ ”

Tucker falters momentarily, a little taken aback by the genuine anger in Epsilon’s voice. Unfortunately for Epsilon, Tucker’s just as pissed. He takes a quick glance around to make sure that no one is coming down either end of the hallway, because he's about to start doing some _serious_ fucking yelling. “Don’t you _dare_ imply that I’m—that I’m playing some sort of fucking _mind_ _game_ with him! I’m _flirting_ with him, _Jesus!_ This is what people do, _Church,_ when they wanna _fuck_ someone. They flirt! I’m not joking around, I’m not sending mixed signals, and I’m not just, I don’t know, _bored._ Wash is my friend. He’s hot. I think it’d be fun if we fucked! Why are you making this so _complicated?_ ”

“ _You_ think it’d be fun to fuck.”

“You’re goddamn _right_ I do.”

“Well, what about what Wash wants?”

For a moment, Tucker is speechless with indignation before saying, “ _Dude_.”

It’s all he can manage. Epsilon seems to realize what he’s just said, because he tries to backtrack. “Look, I didn’t mean it like that—”

“If you think that I would—I wouldn’t—it’s not—I’m not gonna _pressure_ Wash into doing anything he doesn’t _want_ to. What the _fuck,_ Church! Seriously! I know I can come on a little strong but I—I would _back off,_ okay, if—”

“Alright, alright, I get it!” Epsilon shuffles, and Tucker’s pleased to see that he looks appropriately guilty. “That came out wrong, okay? I know you wouldn’t. I just don’t want…Wash is…”

“Has it ever occurred to you that I might know Wash a little better than you do?”

Epsilon falters. “What?”

“I know you think of yourself as the fucking expert on Agent Washington and what his whole deal is, but—”

“What—I never said anything like that!”

Tucker taps the side of his head. “You don’t have to, _remember?_ I can fucking…hear it, or feel it, or whatever! You get all weird and quiet and shut down like, _oh, the things we’ve done and seen together! No one will ever understand!_ ”

Epsilon flickers, _purplebluepurpleblue_ , before steadying. “You—don’t you fucking make light of— _you have no idea_ —”

“What happened with you and Wash?” Tucker finishes. “You’re right, I _don’t._ Because he won’t tell me, and you won’t tell me. And you know what? It’s really not any of my goddamn business. Just like _this_ isn’t any of _your_ business! I know that you feel guilty as fuck over whatever happened between you two, but that doesn’t give you—like, some sort of right to make decisions for him!”

“I’m not trying to make decisions for him! I’m trying to—I’m just trying to make you _understand_ —”

“No, you’re _not!_ You’re not trying to get me to understand _anything!_ Well, guess what Church? You don’t _really_ seem to know Wash as well as you think you do, and you sure as shit don’t know what he needs."

“Oh! _Oh!_ And _you_ do?”

Tucker shrugs, folding his arms. “I might.”

“Oh, _please,_ Tucker—”

“I mean, who said anything about this whole thing just being sex?”

Epsilon throws up his hands. “Uh, _you_ did! You _do!_. Like, all the time!”

“Well, _yeah,_ I wanna fuck him ten ways to Sunday, but—”

“Oh my _GOD_.”

“But he might not even be _into_ sex. And if he’s not into sex, you wanna know what we _can_ do?”

“I’m _sure_ you’re about to tell me.”

“Sleep. Together. In a non-sex way.”

Epsilon stares at him. “Sleep. In a non-sex way.”

“Yeah. ‘Cause you know what _I_ know about Washington, that you apparently don’t? When he’s all freaked out and wound up, he calms down if you touch him. You gotta be careful and slow about it, but like, if you put a hand on his elbow or kinda bump into his shoulder he…” Tucker realizes he has his hands up in front of him, trying to demonstrate. “He, like, leans into it. He gets all quiet and just…I don’t know, it calms him down.”

“Didn’t he try to kill you when you first met when you tried to wake him up from a nightmare?”

“ _Yeah,_ because I wasn’t slow about it!” Tucker says impatiently. “I _just said_ you have to like, make it a subtle thing. I literally tried to shake him awake. It was pretty stupid—wait. How do you even know about that?”

“Oh. Uh…

“Did _Wash_ tell you about that?”

After several moments of obviously casting around for some bullshit excuse, Epsilon wilts. “Yeah. He did.”

_“When?”_

“In the infirmary. He…” Epsilon hesitates for a while here, and Tucker can practically see him carefully choosing his words. “He was…afraid.”

Tucker’s insides freeze at that. “Afraid? Of—of what, of _me?_ ”

“No, not of you! See, this is what I mean, you don’t _get_ it—he was afraid to share a room with you. He thought he’d _hurt_ you.”

Tucker’s a little taken aback at those words before shaking his head. “Church, don’t you see what I’m saying here? He can’t…he can’t go it alone his entire life. He needs something _normal._ He needs a good fuck, just to—I don’t know, to fucking _relax_ or—or show himself that he can have something good. And if he doesn’t wanna bone, that’s cool. We can like, _hug_ or whatever. Or just take a goddamn _nap_. Maybe his nightmares wouldn’t suck so much if he had someone there when he woke up. He deserves something good. Even if it’s just a night of hot sex. _He deserves something good._ I could be that something good.”

Epsilon has finally, to Tucker’s relief, seemed to run out of things to say. He stares at Tucker for nearly a full minute, utterly still, and Tucker stares right back until—

“Wow.”

“Wow, what?” Tucker says impatiently.

“Nothing, it’s just…you’re really into him.”

“Fuck yeah I’m really into him! _Jesus_ , Church!”

“Okay, _look_ —”

“I wouldn’t hurt Wash,” Tucker mutters, because it bothers him, a _lot,_ that Church would _think_ this, that there’s the slightest chance that _Wash_ might be thinking it. “I’m not a total asshole, you know.”

“I never said you were going to hurt him intentionally!”

“You may as well have!”

“Alright, _alright,_ I’m _sorry,_ okay?”

“So, do I have your permission?” Tucker asks sarcastically. “What, do I need to ask you for his fucking hand in marriage or something?”

Epsilon snorts a little. “Marriage, huh?”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Church.”

They both fall silent for a while, glaring in opposite direction, before Tucker relents a little, because _fuck_ all this tension. “Okay, but _really_ though. I _do_ need to find out if he likes dudes. So if you’re not gonna tell me—”

“You’re right, I’m not—”

“I seriously need a way to find out if he’s into dicks. Or, like, _sex_ at all.”

“You know, Tucker, Wash probably doesn’t know you’re into dudes, either,” Epsilon says. “When did _that_ happen, anyway?”

“ _Please_. I was way overdue for a bisexual awakening. I literally doubled my stock here.”

“So, what, this was just suddenly a non-issue for you?”

Tucker shrugs. “What happens in the desert stays in the desert. Unless, of course, you _want_ details, in which case—”

“God, Tucker,” Epsilon groans, but Tucker’s distracted by the fact that he has a point.

“You really don’t think Wash knows I’m down to a fuck a guy?”

“I mean…” Epsilon shrugs. “It’s always, like, _chicks_ with you.”

Tucker frowns, trying to remember if he’s ever come on to a guy in Wash’s presence, or make some slutty remark. To his horror, he realizes— “Fuck. I think you’re right. Okay, this is an emergency. I’m serious. I have to fix this pronto."

Epsilon sighs loudly, then pauses to look Tucker full in the face. “I, uh. I’m sorry. About. I didn’t mean. I’m sorry.”

“Dude, it’s fine.”

“Kay.” Epsilon shifts. “We, uh, we good?”

“Yes, Church. We’re good. Just…don’t try to cockblock me again, okay? That’s not cool.”

“Alright, alright. Deal.”

* * *

 

 His perfect opportunity to let Wash know he’s into dudes presents itself, as perfect opportunities often do, at the most unlikely of times. He’s sitting at a corner table in the mess hall with Wash and the rest of the guys the next day, when all of a sudden Carolina materializes at the end of their table, helmet propped against her hip.

“I’ve booked us the training room for three hours this afternoon,” she says, in a tone that suggests she’s rewarding them with a wonderful treat as opposed to punishing them.

Grif makes a show of glancing around. “Uh, who’s us?”

“Us. You, me, and everyone else sitting at this table. I want to show you guys some hand-to-hand stuff.”

Epsilon cackles from where he’s perched on the edge of Tucker’s cup. “Oh, _man_. This oughta be good.”

Sarge all but swells in indignation. “Now, listen here little lady—I’ve been tossing Blues around since before you were born—”

“Unlikely,” Tucker mutters, but Sarge ignores him.

“Not all of us need these _remedial lessons_ —”

“She never said they were remedial, Sarge,” Wash says, exasperated. “Just that you could _use_ some lessons.”

Sarge eyes him. “Oh, really, Blue? _We_ could use some lessons?”

Wash sighs impatiently. “I meant _all of us_ could use—”

“Can it, Frecklelancer. Seems to me that you were the only one to stumble back from your last tango with the mercs with half the bones in your body broken—”

“ _Ribs_ , Sarge. With a few broken ribs. _Hardly_ half the bones in my body.”

“Broken ribs, a concussion, a dislocated shoulder, waving off any sort of help so you could weep over the body of your dying lover—”

Tucker perks up, delighted, as Wash starts sputtering. “Wait, are you talking about _me?”_

“—wouldn’t let anyone take a look at your bleeding skull until you’d passed out on the floor of the Pelican—”

“Oh, _please_ —”

Donut sighs, propping a chin in his hand and looking at Sarge dreamily. “Gosh, don’t forget about the part where he just like—” he demonstrates vaguely with his free hand “—took Tucker’s hand and just, held it to his chest—”

Which Tucker does have some vague memories of: Wash’s terrified face over his, his hand warm and steady in Tucker’s. Their gloves had been off, Tucker remembers that, although he isn’t sure how that happened. He eyes Wash with interest, but Wash is studiously avoiding his gaze.

“No no, you’re doing it wrong, it was more like…” Sarge reaches across the table to grab Donut’s hand and before Tucker knows it, the two of them are recreating what looks to be something straight out of a soap opera. Wash has his face buried in his hands, and the soldiers at nearby tables are starting to stare.

“Alright, _alright_ ,” Carolina says loudly. Tucker’s surprised she let them carry on this long, until he catches her working hard to keep a smile off of her face. “Focus. I want to see all of you in training room B in two hours, got it?”

“We got it, boss,” Wash grits out as Sarge continues his dramatic retelling. He smacks Sarge upside the head as soon as Carolina clears the table, and the two of them continue to gripe at each other until Kimball comes over and hisses at them all to set a better example. Tucker puts his hands behind his head and leans back to watch the show, Epsilon snickering away inside his head.

* * *

 Three hours later and well into their training session with Carolina, they are all far less amused. She’s giving them all instruction on grappling and ground fighting, and Tucker isn’t the only one who’s confused.

“Not that I’m complaining about getting to lay down while training,” Grif says, “but why are we doing all of this training _outside_ of our armor? We live in the stuff.”

Carolina folds her arms. “The first thing our enemies are going to do if you are taken captive is remove your armor. Too many soldiers these days rely solely on training in armor, and have no idea what to do when it’s taken away from them. That’s _not_ going to be us.”

She demonstrates a few more moves with Wash, and Tucker perks up a little. Getting to roll around with Wash practicing leg locks and shit? Sign him _up._

 _< Tucker, we’re training, not…doing whatever is you’re thinking of doing,>_ Epsilon hisses, and Tucker rolls his eyes.

 _< Yeah, I _know _that, thanks Church. >_

“Alright, pair up and try those moves,” Carolina says loudly, and Tucker cuts off his thoughts. He turns instinctively to Wash, but Wash is narrowing his eyes at Sarge.

“Let’s go, Colonel. You and me.”

Sarge sniffs. “Please. What makes you want to think I want to waste valuable training time squaring off with a Blue?”

“What’s the matter? Afraid you’ll _lose?_ ”

Tucker sighs in disappointment as the two of them posture dramatically, and turns to see an unenthused Grif standing in front of him. “Wanna get this over with?”

“Yeah, let’s go,” Tucker mutters, after another wistful glance at Wash.

“So, like, you weren’t embarrassed,” Grif says to him as they square off.

“Huh?”

“When Sarge and Donut were ragging on you and Wash in the mess hall. Wash was embarrassed, but you weren’t.”

“Oh, well.” Tucker jumps backwards out of Grif’s reach and shrugs. “Yeah. I’m trying to hit that.”

Grif’s eyeballs bulge. “What— _Wash?_ You want to screw _Wash?_ ”

“Uh, have you seen the guy?” Tucker glances pointedly over at where Wash is wrestling Sarge to the ground. “I mean, _damn_. He can pin me to the mat _anytime._ ”

He yelps a little as Grif takes advantage of his distraction and slams him to the ground, the air kicking out of him in a whoosh. _“Fuck,”_ he wheezes, and tries to remember what Carolina just told him about the guard position.

“So when did _this_ happen?” Grif grunts, batting his hands out of the way. “I mean, you guys had a lot of sexual tension going in the canyon, but—”

“I _know_ ,” Tucker sighs. “Talk about wasted time—”

He’s tapping out as Grif gets him in a chokehold and squeezes. “Jesus,” he gasps as Grif lets up, pulling him to his feet. “How did you do that?”

Grif shrugs. “Dude, it’s literally just laying on people. I hardly have to do anything.”

“Apparently,” Tucker mutters.

“So, it wasn’t the canyon,” Grif prompts as Tucker jumps on his back and attempts to lock in a sleeper hold. “Which means it was _here_.”

It takes a lot of effort, but Tucker manages to take Grif to the ground. Unfortunately, this also means that Grif falls right on top of him. “Well— _unfh_ —yeah. I guess I—I don’t know, I thought of him after I got stabbed, or whatever.”

Grif pauses. “Wait, Wash was the last thing you thought of before you almost died?”

“Well—I mean…I guess, yeah.”

“ _Dude_ ,” Grif says sympathetically, as Tucker tries to lock in another chokehold, “you are _so fucked_.”

Tucker doesn’t have a chance to reply to that—although what he would’ve said, he has no idea—since two seconds later, Carolina is standing over top of them, frowning.

“No, no, _no,_ not like that. Tucker, your leg positioning is all wrong. Come here.”

With a sigh, Tucker gets up and shuffles over to Carolina. In a few fluid movements, she’s got him on the ground with her legs wrapped around his throat in something that she calls a triangle choke. He’s so busy trying to make sure that his ass is high enough up in the air for Wash to admire that he almost forgets to take note of the fact that Carolina’s gorgeous thighs are wrapped around his neck. Which like, _damn,_ he’s got it bad, but also— _unacceptable._

Tucker winks at her. “Think you could pop _my_ head like a watermelon with those thighs?”

Carolina opens her mouth to reply scathingly, but ends up sputtering as Tucker’s hair lands in her mouth. “I will never understand,” she says desperately, batting Tucker’s dreads out of her face, “how on _Earth_ you got these past Basic.”

Tucker flips his hair directly into her face again, all dramatic and slow-motion like, as Carolina rolls her eyes. “ _Please_. I have my ways.”

“I’m impressed, actually,” Carolina says. “I don’t know _how_ you did it. Everyone I knew in Basic had a buzzed head.”

Tucker has a funny feeling that Carolina’s military experience differs from his in every way, down to Basic training. Literally _no one_ cared about his hair or anyone else’s hair in the military anymore, but he decides not to remind Carolina of her tragic past in favor of keeping the mood light. “Dude, you should’ve seen the dreads my _recruiter_ had! Down to his fucking waist. There was no way he was gonna make me chop mine off.” He pauses, suddenly struck by brilliance. “It also probably helped that I sucked his dick.”

That last part is a _complete_ lie—he hadn’t realized he was into dudes back then, which was a shame in retrospect, because that recruiter had been _fine_ —but it’s worth it when, in his peripheral, he sees Wash spit out the mouthful of water he’d just chugged from his canteen. He fights back a grin as Caboose slaps Wash on the back.

“Yeah, that’s okay baby, I don’t mind if you’d rather spit,” Tucker adds with a wink, and Wash’s face turns bright red. _Christ_ , he blushes, he actually fucking _blushes._

Carolina rolls Tucker off of her, pulling him to his feet. “Gross, Tucker.” She turns to Wash, unimpressed. “ _Washington_ , are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Wash gasps, wiping at his face. “Yeah, I’m good. I’m great.”

 _< Think he got the point?> _Tucker asks Epsilon gleefully.

_< Tucker, no one is that oblivious. Trust me, we all got the point.>_

_< Oh my god, he blushes! Did you_ see _that? Who blushes like that?! How the fuck am I supposed to control myself when he_ fucking blushes? _>_

 _<_ This _is what you call controlling yourself?! >_

Tucker’s still congratulating himself on a job well-done when Wash stops coughing and stares over at Tucker. The look is long and considering, and Tucker finally, _finally_ sees something dawning on his face—something that’s equal parts realization and curiosity and a soft startled something else that pulls at Tucker’s chest; disbelief or maybe hope—

Wash breaks their eye contact, glances down at his shirt with a frown and says, “Ah, _man,_ I don’t even have a spare.”

Tucker’s jaw drops as Wash sighs heavily and takes off his shirt like he’s in a fucking _porno_ , crossing his arms and arching his back, all slow and deliberate, letting the shirt muss up his hair, and turning half the training room on in the process. Or at least, Tucker assumes so. _He’s_ sure as fuck turned on. Wash balls the shirt up and tosses it behind him, innocently turning to Carolina. “I think we should rotate partners; don’t you, boss?”

“I—yeah, sure, let’s do that,” Carolina says, looking as if she’s seriously regretting starting this training session.

Tucker frantically tries to get his brain to reboot as Wash walks over to him with water dripping all over his fucking chest, half of his mouth pulled up in a smile. He asks Wash to repeat himself three times before he registers that Wash is asking him to pair up, and then has to endure another _twenty minutes_ of training with a sweaty, messy-haired, shirtless Washington and his fucking _eighteen-pack._ It’s torture, sweet, _glorious_ torture, because Wash is trying to show him something called side control, which means he’s got Wash’s chest pressed tight to his own and Wash’s breath ghosting across his neck and Wash’s _fucking hands_ trying to tug his limbs into the correct position—

Epsilon finally materializes on top of Tucker’s discarded helmet and throws up his arms. “Oh, my god. I can’t _take_ this anymore. Tucker, you’re in the clear. You’re fine. You’re—you’re clearly _better_ than fine. You have my permission. Go. Just—just _go._ Carolina, take me back now, please, _please_ , for the love of _God_ —”

And as Epsilon implants into a bewildered and annoyed Carolina, Tucker is almost sure that Wash is fighting back a grin.

* * *

Tucker would probably rather take another knife to the gut before admitting it, but he kind of misses Epsilon once he’s gone. 

Epsilon had been annoying and overbearing and utterly useless in helping him decipher just why his insides came alive when Wash walked into the room these days, but it had been nice, kind of—

_“Like a little best friend you can carry around in your pocket!”_

Caboose had said that, at some point, and Tucker groans as the memory echoes in his head. Because, yeah. Maybe something like that.

“Epsilon finally left?” Wash asks that afternoon, and Tucker nods.

“Yup. Finally, some peace and quiet.”

His tone doesn’t have his usual heat in it, but to his credit, Wash doesn’t push. Their training session that day is on the quieter side: Tucker is still trying to get used to not having Epsilon in his head, and Wash still hasn’t lost that blank, exhausted look he’s had on his face for the past few days. He’s pleased, though, whenever Tucker keeps his head and executes a proper disarm or pivot.

“Better, Tucker, that’s much better,” he says, and Tucker’s chest swells. They’re training in armor today, working on knife evasion. Training with the knives was still nerve-wracking, but it had gotten a bit better once he’d _realized_ how freaked out he was. He’s angry at himself, for the way his heart speeds up and the way his limbs often freeze, but Wash’s presence is calming. Tucker feels better just knowing that he’s learning something that can make him better. He thinks, for the millionth time, of Wash’s hand under his chin, soft and sure, and the way it had settled the storm raging inside his chest.

“Good,” Wash says at the end of their session. He can hear the smile in Wash’s voice despite the exhaustion—he’s so exhausted, Tucker can just tell, and he thinks he should say something but he doesn’t know what— “You’re really getting it, Tucker. We’ll meet again, same time tomorrow, and—”

Wash stops speaking, his head whipping around to stare at the wall. Tucker freezes, staring at him, but Wash doesn’t move a muscle. “Uh…dude, are you okay?”

“Shhh,” Wash whispers absently.

Tucker can only stare, bewildered, as Wash fiddles with the auditory filters on his helmet before taking it off completely. Tucker takes his off as well. “Um…”

“I think it’s raining,” Wash says, and he takes off down the hallway.

“Oh,” Tucker says, staring at the place where Wash had previously been standing before snapping out of it and following him. “Oh. Okay. Are you sure, I don’t hear…anything…”

He trails off as Wash rounds the corner to one of the security doors of the compound, pushing it open. Sure enough, the rain is falling in sheets, and Tucker wonders how he didn’t hear it before.

“It is!” Wash says, and he sounds so delighted that Tucker can only gape. “It _is_ raining. Look!”

“Yeah. I see,” Tucker says, and spends the next minute or two trying not to breathe or move a muscle, lest he ruin this, whatever _this_ was. _I know I like the rain,_ Wash had said, after that ridiculous day when Tucker had tried to get him standing in front of every red surface he could find. He could tell that those words had been important, but this—this wasn’t important, Tucker realizes. This was _everything_ to Wash.

Wash isn’t paying him the slightest bit of attention. He’s leaning out the door as far as he can get without actually going outside, and when he removes a glove to stretch out his hand to try to catch the rain, Tucker can’t keep quiet any longer.

“Dude. Go play.”

Wash jumps a little, turning to stare at him, and Tucker panics at the way his eyes start to close off. “What? Oh. I just—we should go.”

“No, no, really!” Tucker gestures outside. “You, just. You look like you want to feel the rain, is all. You—you like the rain, right? Go on, it hasn’t rained in forever. I’ll hold your helmet.”

“I haven’t seen the rain in….I mean, not like _this_ …” Wash trails off, then straightens. “No…no. No, I can’t just go outside there without my helmet—there’s a war going on, and I—”

“Wash, no one is gonna see you.” There’s this hysterical laugh threatening to climb out of Tucker’s mouth, a weird pressure in his throat, and he’s mortified to realize his eyes are stinging. He fights not to blink, and strangles the laugh down tight. “Look, it’s an enclosed courtyard. See? Not even any windows looking down into here.”

Wash follows where Tucker’s pointing, and Tucker can see the moment where he wavers. “I…I don’t…no, it’s stupid.”

“I’ll—I’ll stand watch,” Tucker says, and for the first time, Wash snaps his head around to give Tucker his full attention.

“You will?”

“I will. Really! I’ll, just. I’ll guard the door, and like, the perimeter, and you, just. Go feel the rain. I’ll stand watch.”

Wash hesitates for so long that Tucker thinks he’s not going to do it, but after a final glance at Tucker, he steps into the courtyard. His movements are stiff and uncertain at first, but grow bolder when the water hits his face. It’s absolutely pouring, and in moments, Wash’s hair is soaked through. Tucker watches, transfixed, as Wash tilts his face up to the sky, the tension from the day washing away with the water.

He turns his gaze back to Tucker, eyes so very bright and so very blue. His mouth opens and closes a few times, and Tucker can see the hesitation on his face. “I, um. I’ve…always liked it. The water. The—the rain,” he says, and Tucker only nods, because he knows that’s not all. “I…in Freelancer, after…I…”

“It’s okay,” Tucker says, and he isn’t sure if he means, _It’s okay you don’t have to tell me_ or, _everything will be okay I swear to fucking god it will_ or maybe both.

Wash must hear something in his words, because his voice grows stronger. “After….Epsilon, things were…mixed up. It took a long time for me to realize what memories were mine, and which were…it’s just…I remembered _this_ first. The water. It was the first thing that I knew was real.” He pauses, looks up at the sky. “I know it’s stupid.”

Tucker doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything less stupid in his whole life. “It’s not,” is all he says. “It…it’s really not.”

The smile Wash gives him is soft and achingly sweet. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” Tucker says. “ _Yeah._ Anytime, yeah. _Just._ Yeah.”

Wash lets out a short, startled laugh as a clap of thunder shakes the sky. Tucker watches him tilt his face back up to the sky and smile, and he thinks that he could stand here forever, watching Wash watch the rain. He thinks that he’d do anything, fight anyone, to let Wash have this peace, to protect him from anyone who would do him harm.

There it is.

The warm, safe feeling that he’d felt at the crash site after making Wash laugh. It wasn’t the light, he realizes, and it wasn’t even Wash’s banging bod—it’s just—

Wash.

Just Wash, in the dying sunlight, in the pouring rain, laughing, and gorgeous, and open.


	8. Chapter 8

The rain doesn’t stop for nearly forty-eight hours.

Wash can hear the distant patter from everywhere on base, and it’s been a reassuring backbeat to his increasingly stressful days. He listens to it now, as he grips the sink in the washroom and stares hard into the mirror.

“Okay,” he says, after a final glance under the stalls and into the showers to confirm that he _is_ , in fact, alone. “Okay.”

He lifts his shirt over his head and stares at his reflection.

Tired blue eyes stare back at him. He runs a hand through his hair, blond and rumpled and in desperate need of a cut. He takes in the scar across the bridge of his nose, the drag marks peeking out from under his hairline and the freckles dotting his face. Follows those freckles down to where they spot nearly every inch of his chest. His muscles are nice and firm, but he’s hard-pressed to find a smooth patch of skin on his torso and arms: where there aren’t freckles, there are knife scars, burn marks, and old gunshot wounds. He is, quite frankly, a _mess_.

So why— _why_ —had his gut reaction to Tucker’s ridiculous come-ons been to strip off his own shirt and reveal said mess to the world?

Wash groans, resting his forehead on the mirror. He has _no_ idea what was going through his head at that moment. None.

All he knows is that he must make a decision.

Wash lifts his head. “Okay,” he tells himself firmly.

He tugs back on his shirt and leaves the washroom, straight-backed and determined.

He knows what he needs to do.

* * *

“So.”

“Yes?”

“Ummm…so, uh...”

Donut smiles at him patiently, making a get on with it gesture with his spoon. “Go on, spit it out!” He winks. “I hear that’s more your thing, anyway.”

Wash flushes and clears his throat. “ _Didyoustillwanttohangout_.”

Donut pauses, his spoonful of oatmeal frozen halfway to his mouth. “What?”

Wash glances around the mess hall. “You said you wanted to hang out,” he says, a little more clearly this time. “With. Uh. Wine and cheese. Or something.”

“Oh, _no!_ ” Donut says, crestfallen. “I don’t even have any _cheese_ yet!”

“That’s okay,” Wash says hastily. “I mean, we don’t _have_ to hang out, if—”

Donut huffs. “Wash, don’t be _ridiculous._ Of course we're gonna hang out! I do have wine, which is the _important_ thing, am I right?”

“I…suppose so, yes.”

“Wonderful! So, when do you want to spend some quality time together?”

Wash rubs the back of his neck. “Uh… I don’t know…tomorrow night, maybe? I just…I could, uh, use your opinion on, um, _something_.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Donut says, and shoots bolt upright. “ _Okay_ , let me just—reschedule my mani-pedi party with the Feds and then we’ll be good!”

“Oh, don’t—Donut, don’t reschedule anything, _really_ —”

“ _Wash_.” Donut pauses, putting a solemn hand on his forearm. “Wash, this is _important._ I can tell. Don’t you worry your pretty little freckled face about a _thing._ You come to my room tomorrow night, and we’ll have wine, and just _talk._ About our _feelings_. Kay?”

He takes off, leaving Wash to stew in sweeping panic and sudden regret. He turns on his datapad, desperate to have something to take his mind off the upcoming conversation. He pulls up the training schedule, which, while indeed _distracting_ , does nothing for his spirits except drop them further. There’s only one session left before he’s supposed to start training both armies together, and they’re not _anywhere_ close to ready.

“We can rearrange that, you know,” Simmons says from several seats down. “Give the Feds and News an extra couple practices.”

It takes several seconds for Simmons’ words to register. “Hmm? Oh…no, it’ll take me _ages_ to rework this.”

Simmons moves up closer to Wash, tugging the chart towards him. “No it won’t. Look, it’s just patterns, see? If we move Carolina and Kimball’s hand-to-hand _back_ an hour, and rotate _up_ the sessions with our cadets…”

Wash watches in fascination as Simmons rearranges the entire training schedule in less than five minutes before presenting it with a flourish. “There. Now you have an extra three days. I know it’s not _much_ , but…”

“No, it’s amazing,” he says, distributing the schedule to all relevant parties with a few swipes on his datapad. “Simmons, _thank_ you.”

Simmons lifts his head proudly. “Just doing my duty, sir.”

Which, Wash has come to realize over the years, is Simmons-speak for _that’s what friends are for._ He thinks of Donut rearranging his schedule so that they could talk, and Sarge attempting to show him his _super-secret-go-to-sleeper-hold_ in training yesterday, and Tucker holding his helmet while he stood in the rain, and he wonders, yet again, how he got here, and what he did to deserve it.

* * *

_Wash lunges in, pivotonetwo, and draws the training knife across Tucker’s midsection. The chalk mark it leaves behind is bright and vivid, and Tucker jolts as he glances down at it. He hasn’t stopped freezing up at the sight of all that red._

_It’s best, Wash has learned, to keep things moving when Tucker gets that startled, haunted look on his face—keep him focused, keep him present. “Okay,” Wash says, “Better, but you need to keep an eye on my feet. The pivot will start from there…Tucker? Are you listening?”_

_Tucker’s not listening. His hands are pressed tightly over his stomach and he’s staring in disbelief at his midsection, at where the bright red chalk is bleeding through his fingers to drip on the floor. It takes Wash a moment to realize what he’s looking at, because the chalk shouldn’t be melting like that, shouldn’t be staining Tucker’s fingers and dripping through them like—like—_

_“Tucker!”_

_He breaks Tucker’s fall, laying him out on the ground. The blood is everywhere, seeping not only from Tucker’s torso, but from everywhere else that Wash had caught him with the chalked-up knife. Chalk, he thinks wildly, chalk, it was just_ chalk _, the knife wasn’t real, this isn’t real, this isn’t—_

_Tucker is shaking hard, and Wash finds his own hands are trembling as he presses them to the wound in Tucker’s stomach. He spares a quick glance at the knife, then does a double-take: the blade is bright with Tucker’s blood, its sharp edge visible even from here._

_Horror and disbelief worm their way into his chest, spreading out through his limbs until his fingers and toes are numb with panic. “Tucker,” he says, “Tucker—I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—hold on, just hold on, you’re gonna be okay!”_

_Tucker’s body goes still under Wash’s hands, and it is not okay. Wash’s throat closes up, and when the scream finally claws its way out, it’s a broken, bleeding thing, a wordless howl, and he’s shaking Tucker and ripping at his own hair and tearing at the sheets that he’s wound around his legs and clawing at his chest because he can’t breathe he can’t breathe Tucker’s body is gone and the room is dark and there’s only starlight spilling form the tiny window at the foot of his bed and he can’t BREATHE—_

The window, the window, the window. He had a room with a window like this once, tiny and circular at the foot of his bed, on a ship that he called home before he really knew what that word meant, before—

_—sleep used to come so easily, but he will dream like this for the rest of his life; he knows this now—_

“Dream,” he gasps, but the word comes out high and strangled. He rips the sheets away from his body and shoves them off. His back hits the wall and he presses into it, using it to ground himself. Dream. _Dream_. It isn’t real. It isn’t—

_Tucker’s body goes still and it is not okay._

Nausea swoops into his stomach and strangles up his throat, and he gags, dropping his head between his knees, struggling to suck in air. “One,” he grits out, and makes himself count to ten, and back down to one when that’s not enough.

“Your name is Agent Washington,” he whispers when he gets there. “You are the leader of Blue Team. You’re on Chorus. You had a nightmare. You’re fine. _Tucker_ is fine.”

Tucker.

Wash lifts his head, glancing around his room at the sheets twisted in a corner, at his pillow on the floor, the bottle of water on his nightstand knocked to the ground, and—

Suddenly he’s _furious_ with himself, so _blindingly_ angry. He clambers to his feet, pacing around the room and running his hands through his hair because he keeps _doing_ this, he keeps _forgetting._

He keeps forgetting _this_ , in the daylight, forgetting what his room looks like at four in the morning after a particularly bad nightmare—what _he_ looks like after a particularly bad nightmare. He keeps forgetting how long it takes him to remember his own name, how he can’t breathe, how there are parts of him that are still broken.

He keeps _forgetting_ that he’s a _mess_.

He thinks again of the knives he’d laid out on the bedside table between him and Tucker in the infirmary, and how Epsilon just hadn’t _gotten_ it. How _no one_ got it. Yet here he is, still fucking it up, still forgetting that he can’t let his guard down, that he isn’t normal, and that he can’t allow himself to do normal things like _flirting_ —

Wash stops pacing, sitting down hard on the edge of his bed, anger and shame and bitter disappointment knotting themselves together in his chest. Flirting. _That’s_ what he’d been doing the other day, when Tucker had made one too many suggestive comments and a lightbulb had gone on in Wash’s head. When Wash had just taken off his shirt and given it right back. He hadn’t even _thought_ about it. It had been normal. Easy. _Simple._

But he _isn’t_ normal, and this _isn’t_ easy or simple. He has no business even entertaining the idea of doing _anything_ with Tucker, and he quashes down the disappointment that wells in him at the thought.

He has no business feeling that, either.

* * *

“Wash!”

Wash starts guiltily when he sees Donut storming down the hallway towards him, wearing fuzzy slippers and a frown. “Oh—uh, hey Donut.”

“Don’t _‘Hey Donut’_ me!” Donut folds his arms and raises his eyebrows expectantly. “Are you _forgetting_ something? We’re supposed to be having wine and cheese night!”

“I—I _know,_ I just—”

 “God, Wash, you are so—if you make other plans, you’re supposed to tell the person you were going to hang out with!”

It’s not that!” Wash protests. “I—look, I wanted to talk to you about something, but it’s stupid, and I—”

Donut sighs loudly and grabs his wrist, and Wash barely restrains himself from throwing Donut over his shoulder. He lets Donut drag him down the hallway, Donut mutters all the while about social etiquette, before tugging Wash into his room and slamming the door.

Wash stares around Donut’s room. It looks exactly as he would have expected it to: neat and clean with little baskets of moisturizer and scented soap, and an actual _wine basket_ —fake grapes, bottle opener and all. “Wait, you actually have wine? Where did you get that?”

“During Operation Watermelon!” Donut finishes rummaging in a drawer and pulls out, not only two crystal wine glasses, but monogrammed napkins as well. Wash isn’t sure why he’s surprised.

“Thanks,” he says awkwardly, as Donut hands him a glass. He sits on the very edge of Donut’s bed, feeling ridiculous. “But where did you get it? At a bar?”

“Of course!”

“There are _bars_ still open?”

“Wash, there will _always_ be bars open. Always. It’s not a ghost town out there, you know.”

Which, Wash realizes, he _wouldn’t_ actually know. He hasn’t set foot outside of the base since arriving in Armonia. “That probably wasn’t safe, Donut.”

Donut waves a hand. “It was fine. We all had our armor on!”

“Still, though.”

Donut sighs, reaching over to pat his knee. “You worry too much, Wash.”

“You all don’t worry _enough_.”

Donut settles back more comfortably against the wall. “So. What’s on your mind?”

Wash hesitates, taking a sip of his wine. “I don’t…I just...”

“Okay,” Donut says, and waits patiently until Wash starts chugging his wine. “Oh, c’mon, let’s have it.”

“I think Tucker’s hitting on me,” Wash blurts. “ _Me_ specifically.”

Donut stares at him. Wash finds himself simultaneously relieved and a little saddened, but he shoves that thought right back down. Of _course_ he was imagining it. It was silly to think for even a second that Tucker wanted _him_. Silly to think—

“Are you _joking?_ ”

Wash blinks. “Huh?”

“Wait.” Donut sits up a little straighter. “Wait, wait, _wait_. Are you saying— _oh my god!_ You’re serious. You don’t see it?”

“See what?”

“Wash,” Donut says, clearly fighting to keep a grin off of his face. “ _Yes,_ Tucker’s hitting on you. Is _that_ what you wanted my opinion on? Don’t you pay _any_ attention?”

“Tucker hits on _everyone_ , though. I can’t tell if this is different, or…”

“Oh, goodness _gracious_ ,” Donut says. “Tucker _hits on_ everyone, but he only _flirts_ with you.”

“I don’t know….”

Donut groans, picking up a pillow and pressing his face into it. “Oh, you two. You’re like characters in a soap opera, _honestly_.” He peeks out from behind the pillow and peers at Wash despairingly. “Y’know, if you guys got together in the next…say, three days, then I am going to be _very_ rich.”

“What does that even _mean?_ ”

“It means that I’ll win the betting pool!”

“There’s a _betting_ pool?”

Donut gestures desperately. “See, this is what I mean! Everyone sees it but you!”

“This is stupid,” Wash mutters, and takes another despairing sip of wine. “It’s _stupid_.”

“Wash, it’s _not_. Why are you making this so complicated?”

“I’m not—”

“I mean, why is it so incomprehensible that Tucker wants you?”

Wash stop, staring at Donut. “I don’t…Donut, I _can’t_.”

“But _why_ can’t you?”

There is not enough wine in the world for this conversation. “First of all, I haven’t had…I haven’t. In a long time.”

“What, had sex?”

“…yes.”

Donut waves a hand. “Well, I think Tucker’s the perfect person to get you back in the groove.”

Wash decides to skate over that particular topic, which is rife with its own list of issues that he doesn’t think he can get into with Donut. Besides, there are more important problems at hand. “That aside…it would be highly irresponsible of me to…to be with someone,” Wash says stiffly. “If we were to fall asleep…after…I could hurt him.”

“Oh, Wash.”

“You know what my nightmares are like.” He can’t look at Donut. “I can’t have someone in bed next to me while I’m sleeping.”

“You’re not nearly as violent as you think you are after a nightmare, you know. I mean, sometimes you wake up swinging, but…you never hurt Sarge or me in the Fed compound, you know. Not once.” Donut smiles at him, sympathetic but not pitying. “You were mostly just scared.”

Wash closes his eyes. “I almost killed Tucker. After Sidewinder. _I put my hands on his neck_ , Donut.”

“But that was _years_ ago. And you were in a new environment, and you didn’t _trust_ each other yet! Maybe…maybe this is just what you need, to make the nightmares go away. To have someone next to you.”

“So, what, I should just risk it?” Wash says, and tries to take the sharp note out of his voice. “I can’t. I won’t risk Tucker’s life just because I want…just so I can…”

“But what about _your_ life?”

“What?”

Donut sighs. “What, are you just going to go it alone for the rest of your life? Never hold hands or kiss or _make love_ again? That’s not fair.”

“It’s what I deserve.”

Donut looks at him sharply. “I hate that you still think that.”

“Well, it’s true,” Wash snaps back. “I don’t…this is _Tucker_ we’re talking about here. I don’t des—”

“Don’t,” Donut says, voice angry and fierce in a way Wash has never heard. “Don’t you _dare_ finish that sentence, Washington, if what you’re about to say is ‘ _Tucker’s too good for me, I don’t deserve him.’_ ”

Wash clenches his jaw, lifting his chin. “Well—”

“No. _No_ ,” Donut says. He puts his glass of wine on the crate next to his bed and faces Wash head-on. “You can just stop right there, mister. I don’t want to hear it. In fact, I don’t want to hear you talk about yourself like this ever again.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re—like you’re this broken toy who should be tossed aside, and never played with again! You’re _not_ broken, and you _do_ deserve to be played with!”

“Donut—”

“And what about _Tucker_ , huh? _Huh?_ Who gave you the right to decide what he does and doesn’t deserve?”

“I don’t—that’s not what I—”

“Tucker’s a big boy, Wash. He can decide what he wants, and he wants _you._ He wants you, and you want him. I _know_ you do. Just…just let yourself have this!”

“I don’t know _how_ ,” Wash says. He’s finding it difficult to look at Donut again. “I don’t know how to, anymore.”

“Then figure it out, _together_. It’ll come back to you soon enough.”

Wash is silent for a while, fiddling with the edge of Donut’s bedspread. “So…so I’m _not_ imaging it, you don’t think?”

“No, Wash. You’re not imaging it.” Donut gives him that half-smile again. “You really don’t see the way he looks at you, do you?”

“I….”

“Well, start paying attention, then! You’ll see it soon enough.”

* * *

“Britton! _Pay attention!_ ”

Cadet Britton jumps guiltily from where she’s clustered with a few of her friends, whispering in a corner of the training room. Wash can’t understand it. They’re supposed to be working on rifle disarms today, and the cadets are even more unfocused than usual. There’s an excitable, distracted energy vibrating around the room—this is the fifth time Wash has had to yell at the cadets for standing around and gossiping.

 _Gossiping_. There’s really no other word for it. He watches as Jensen wanders away from Britton when she thinks Wash isn’t looking to cup her hands around the auditory filters of Prajapati’s helmet. Wash sighs.

“Everyone stop!”

He has to yell it three more times before the cadets stand up straight and listen to him. Or, as Wash suspects, pretend to listen to him. “Is there a reason why you’re all so distracted today?”

Even the “sir, no, sir” that echoes around the room is unenthused. “Are my lessons boring you?”

“Sir, no, sir.” That one is slightly more energized, but not by much.

“Well, then, what’s the problem?”

Silence. Wash lets it sit for an awkward thirty seconds before waving them all back to their training. He stalks around, observing the cadets in pairs, about to chalk the day up to a total loss when the _ka-BLAM!_ of a rifle discharging ricochets around the room.

Wash is spinning around before the sound has finished its reverberations, sweeping the nearest pair of cadets behind him and bringing his own rifle up to bear. It takes him several seconds to identify what just happened: there’s no assailant at the door, no cadets lying bloody on the ground. There’s only Britton, one hand clutching her smoking shotgun and the other clapped over the mouth of her visor.

“Private _Britton,_ ” he says, and they all glance around nervously at his tone. Wash marches over and snatches the rifle away from her, emptying the live bullets into his hand. “ _Live_ rounds,” he says, when he’s able to speak again. “Live rounds from your _real rifle_.”

“I’m sorry, Agent Washington,” she whispers, both hands clapped to her visor now. “I—”

Wash holds up a hand, and she quiets. “I want you to explain to me why you are training with your real rifle instead of the training rifle like everyone else.” He gestures towards the neat pile of guns piled up by the doorway of the training room, noting with despair that the rest of the cadets are surreptitiously checking their own rifles to make sure they are using the correct one. “Were my instructions not explicitly clear?”

“They were clear, sir,” she mumbles at the floor.

“Stand up straight,” he says sharply, and her head snaps back up to attention. “Remind me again why we’re using the training guns in every exercise and not our real ones.”

“Because the army is low on ammunition and it is vital that we do not waste a single bullet,” she parrots, voice wavering.

“Correct. Because the army is low on ammunition and it is vital that we do not waste a single bullet.” He glances around the room before turning back to Britton. “I know you all know this. But—far more importantly— _you could have killed someone!_ ”

“I know sir, and I’m sorry, I f-forgot—”

He wants to scream. “Private _Britton!_ I don’t ever want to hear the words _I forgot_ come out of your mouth again! You can’t forget something like this! It’s unacceptable, _completely_ unacceptable, and—and— _are you crying?_ ”

Britton sniffles loudly, and she _is._ She _is_ crying. “What—Britton— _pull yourself together_ —”

“I’m sorry!” she wails. “I know I’m the worst soldier _e-ever_ and I d-don’t deserve to wear this armor a-and…” She descends into hiccupping sobs while Wash stares, bewildered. He’s reminded vividly of his youngest sister, who sounded just like this when she was hysterical, when she was a teenager, when she was _so young_ —

“How old are you?” he asks. Britton says nothing, only continues to sob. “Britton. Take off your helmet.”

After a moment of hesitation and some fumbling with the seals on her helmet, Britton lifts it off of her head to reveal a young, heart-shaped face and the biggest brown eyes he’s ever seen. _“How old are you?”_

“Fifteen, sir,” she sniffles bravely, and Wash’s stomach hits the floor.

It’s a few moments before he can remember how to speak. “Everyone take off your helmets. Now.”

And then he’s _surrounded_ , by three dozen long-faced, teary eyed, _kids_. He keeps his own helmet on long enough to get his face under control before removing it, because it seems wrong, somehow, to stand here faceless in front of such young faces.

“Why?” he asks, and he’s not even sure what question he’s asking until Bitters scowls at him.

“’Cause there’s no one left, that’s why.”

Wash looks around the room at all of them again before taking a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. Britton, it’s…it’s…look. You have to be more careful, alright? You could’ve really hurt someone, or yourself.”

She nods, still sniffling, as he hands the bullets and rifle back to her. “I’m sorry, Agent Washington,” she says again. “I—I won’t forget again.”

“Okay, Britton. Okay. You— _please stop crying_!”

“I—I _can’t,_ ” she sobs. “Everything is just so horrible! Laura and Martin broke up last night and they’ve been together since the beginning of the war, and the servers to the base keep shorting out so we can’t download the next season of _Grey’s Anatomy_ , and—and—and _everything is just so horrible!_ ”

“Is that why you’re all upset?” he asks, glancing around. “Because of…Laura and Mark?”

“Martin.”

“Sorry—Martin—and because you can’t…watch the next episode of this… _TV show?_ ”

A series of downcast and sullen nods are all the answer he needs. There are so many things he could say— _this is war, we’ve more important things to worry about, there’s no time for this sort of thing, suck it up_ —but none of them feel right. These are _kids_ standing in front of him, not hardened soldiers, and even if they were, he doesn’t think such harsh words would help. He thinks, after Freelancer, after the leaderboard, that everyone deserves to have _something_ , be it a TV show or the feel of rain on their face.

Wash straightens. “Everyone, helmets on. We have a new training objective.”

The cadets all hesitate, glancing at one another. “What are we doing?” Jensen asks.

“I’ll tell you in a minute.”

They all exchange another series of glances before starting to reseal their helmets. _Wordless communication,_ he notes with surprise. They can use that. They can definitely use that.

He files it away for later. “Lieutenants Palomo, Andersmith, Bitters, and Jensen. Your mission is to find Captain Simmons and tell him that Agent Washington requests his presence in the war meeting room.”

The three of them look at each other before shrugging a little and edging towards the door. “Some _mission,_ ” Bitters mutters.

“Lieutenants? You must not be seen.”

They stare at him. “By… _anyone?_ ” Jensen asks slowly.

“By anyone.”

“But—but that’s going to be impossible!” Palomo wails. “How are we gonna pull that off?!”

“By any means necessary,” Wash says solemnly. “Andersmith, you’ll take point on this mission. Maintain radio contact with myself and Britton.”

“Why me?” Britton pipes.

“You’ll be heading the other mission.”

Britton sniffs loudly. “But….”

“No buts,” Wash says sternly. “You, Martinez, and Prajapati will be heading to the armory. You are to locate the robot Lopez and ask for his assistance. If he will grant it, you will lead him to the war meeting room as well. You speak Spanish?”

“What? Um, well...”

Marinez turns big eyes to Britton. “She _does!_ Like _perfectly!_ ”

“I mean, _yes,_ I do, but—”

Parajapati whirls on Britton. “You _have_ to! You speak Spanish like an _angel._ ”

Wash interrupts before the conversation can get further waylaid. _“Don’t get caught.”_

Martinez fidgets. “There’s no way we’re not going to get caught.”

“Then you need to _find_ a way, Private. We don’t have much time.” Wash clears his throat. “The season premiere is tonight, right?”

They stare at him. “Season premiere?” Britton asks, voice lifting. “You mean…?”

“If we’re all going to watch _Grey’s Anatomy_ , then we need to get moving.”

There’s a beat of silence before the cadets all start whispering to each other ecstatically, but fall silent again when Wash holds up his hand. “Alright. The rest of you. We’re going to divide up by groups of four and make our way to the war meeting room. Now remember— _we must not be seen_.”

They aren’t seen. The cadets are filled with a giddy determination that has Wash grinning under his helmet. His heart swells with pride as he listens to the play-by-play of the Lieutenants sneak right past Carolina, as he listens to Britton make a passionate, tearful case to Lopez. He’s not sure if Lopez is just so grateful to hear someone else speaking Spanish, or if Lopez also wants to watch _Grey’s Anatomy_ , but he agrees to go with the cadets. Wash ferries the cadets in their groups to the meeting room, but he doesn’t have to do much. He’s in the middle of watching his current group tip toe right behind Kimball when a message pops up on his HUD.

SMS: Are you really trying to orchestrate an illicit _Grey’s Anatomy_ viewing party, or are the cadets trying to get me into trouble?

WSH: I don’t know if I would call it an illicit party, but. Something like that.

SMS: And why do you need my help to do it?  
WSH: I need you to hook up the livestream. None of them can figure it out.

SMS: Do you know how much trouble we’re going to get into if Kimball or Doyle finds out?

WSH: How exactly is this any different than you rigging Basebook onto all the internal servers?

A pause, then—

SMS: I’ll see you soon.

By the time all of the cadets and Wash are inside the meeting room, Simmons and Lopez have managed to get the stream working. Lopez and Simmons are bickering furiously, fiddling with the wires, as Britton bounces in between the two of them to translate. Her helmet is off, brown eyes shining, and as Wash looks around the room, he sees that most of the cadets have their helmets off. They’re all crowding around the monitor, but listen when Wash instructs them all to set a watch schedule at the door.

Wash himself stands just outside the hallway, alternating between watching to make sure no one’s coming and peering into watch the cadets. Bits of their armor are scattered around the room, and Palomo has distributed bags of popcorn. They lean up against each other, guns in their laps and sitting closer than any normal group of teenagers would, but they laugh and cheer and throw popcorn at the screen, and Wash realizes that he just might give a damn about this planet, after all.

* * *

There is no sudden or drastic change in the cadets’ training or skill level. They still whine. They still drop their rifles. They still argue and complain about the Feds and sometimes, to Wash’s horror, _cry._

But they trust him now, and that is no small thing. And they are getting better.

They take full advantage of the three golden days that Simmons gave them with his rearranging of the training schedule. A tense, yet focused, determination settles over their training session, and the cadets are—as Palomo puts it— _“Sure as shit not gonna make asses out of ourselves in front of those hoity-toity Feds.”_

Wash watches, beaming, on the last day, as Britton leads half of the group through a textbook infiltration strategy. He’d been focusing hard on teaching them to communicate during training, using hand signals, concise radio talk, and the text reader on their HUDs. They _do_ work quite well together, when they’re paying attention to each other, and Wash makes a point to tell them this as they all gather around him, delighted after their successful training session.

“It was easy!” Britton says, grinning from ear to ear. “We just figured it was like—okay, you know when you’re in a room with your best friend, and someone says something stupid, and you look over at them, but they’re already looking at you?”

“Er,” Wash says blankly, before he remembers the sheer amount of times he’s exchanged a significant glance with Tucker in light of the Reds antics. “Er…yes, I think so.”

“Well, it’s just like that!” Britton says. “Except with guns, and fighting stuff.”

“I…suppose it is,” Wash says. He can’t help but smile at all of their enthusiasm. “Alright, great work today everyone. We begin joint practices with the Feds tomorrow— _don’t start, Prajapati_ —and I think you’re all going to do well. I’m…proud of you.”

He’s a little flustered when they all look at him like he hung the sun in the sky, and grows even more so when Britton throws her arms around his waist. “Thank you, Agent Washington,” she mumbles, and Wash blinks down at the top of her head, grateful that he has his helmet on.

“Um. Yes. You’re welcome. Now…now let’s have three cool down laps around the perimeter and we’ll call it a day.”

They take off with only a minimal amount of grumbling, and Wash watches them rather fondly.

“Dude. I think it’s love.”

Wash turns to see Tucker leaning in the doorway. “I—what? What did you just say?”

“The cadets,” Tucker says, gesturing. “Pretty sure they’re in love with you.”

“Oh, stop. They’ve come a long way is all.”

“I’ll say. They actually looked pretty goddamn legit running that infiltration.”

“Hmmm,” Wash says. “Yeah. They do. They do look good.”

“It’s not the only thing that looks good.” Tucker comes to stand next to Wash, observing the cadets running their laps.

“Oh,” Wash says as Tucker looks him up and down. Which is ridiculous, because they are both in full power armor. Not like the other day, when they’d been grappling out of armor with only the thin fabric of Tucker’s shirt between them—

“Training with the Feds starts tomorrow, right?” Tucker asks casually. “Glad to see the cadets aren’t gonna look like total asshats. I’d never hear the end of it from Ali.”

Wash glances at him. “You’re all getting along with the Federalist captains, then?”

“Eh.” Tucker lifts one shoulder up in a shrug. “They’re okay, I guess.”

Wash says nothing, only smiles a little to himself. They settle into a comfortable silence, during which Wash tries and fails to ignore Tucker’s eyes on him. “What?”

“Heard what you did. With the cadets. And that show they like.”

“You heard about that?”

“Sure did.” Tucker snickers. “Palomo literally would not shut the fuck up about it yesterday.”

“I just…they’re so _young_ , Tucker.”

Tucker sighs. “I know. It fucking sucks.”

“It fucking sucks,” Wash echoes grimly.

Tucker gives his shoulder a little push. “Hey. It was pretty cool, though. Made them all real happy.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Tucker. “Although, I gotta say. Wish you handed out rewards during _our_ training sessions.”

Wash looks out of the corner of his eye. “Uh huh…” he says slowly.

“Like, I would probably be a lot more motivated to get better at knife fighting if I had some _incentive_ , know what I mean?”

Jesus Christ. _There it is again_. That tone. That _tone_ he’d thought Tucker used on everyone but Donut was insisting that, these days, Tucker more or less reserved for him. That tone that makes Wash do ridiculous things like take his shirt off in full view of all of their friends and shamelessly ask Tucker if he wanted to partner up so that he could watch Tucker shiver slightly while Wash muttered instructions on arm positioning right into his ear _in full view of all of their friends_ —

“Hey, Wash?” Tucker’s tapping on his helmet. “You in there?”

Wash jumps. “Yeah, yes, yep. I’m here. What, uh. What were we talking about?”

“We were talking about possibly implementing some training rewards for me.”

“Tucker, this has to stop. It’s highly inappropriate—”

Is what Wash _should_ say. What he _actually_ says is, “Welllllll, I suppose I _do_ still owe you for helping me figure out the training schedule.”

“Fuck _yeah_ you do!” Tucker says enthusiastically. “Don’t worry, I’ve got a few ideas.”

“Oh, really?” Wash folds his arms across his chest. “Well, go on. Let’s hear them.”

 _Stop it,_ Wash tells himself furiously, but his stupid mouth isn’t listening to his stupid brain, and Tucker’s already zeroed in on his words.

“Well, for starters,” Tucker says, without missing a beat. “I think I was a little unclear on that grappling thing you were showing me the other day, that seat control thing—”

“Side control.”

“Yeah. That. Whatever. I could use some private instruction on that, don’t you think? Maybe a review of the mount position as well?”

Before Wash can formulate a response, Tucker takes off his stupid helmet and flips his stupid hair all around and gives Wash that stupid, sultry wink. “Feel free to stop by my room _anytime,_ Wash. I can think of plenty of things you can do to reward me.”

And he’s off, strutting out of the training room. _Point to Tucker,_ Wash thinks, before snapping himself out of it. This was getting ridiculous. How was he supposed to concentrate on anything when Tucker went around _talking about the mount position_? How is he supposed to—

“ _Look_ ,” a voice breathes in a carrying whisper. “Agent Washington _loves_ him.”

“Kennedy, shhhhhh!” his friend hisses, but Wash is already whipping around to see half the cadets huddled fifteen feet away, not even pretending to run laps anymore.

“Wait a second!” Wash yells as they all start to scamper. He looks hard at the first soldier who spoke, something clicking in his head. “You’re _Kennedy?_ ”

“That’s…correct, sir,” Kennedy says, fidgeting.

“You’re _the_ Kennedy who’s been…who’s been…”

He can’t finish that sentence. He stares at Kennedy for a while—Kennedy, who is at least six foot three and has a voice deeper than Andersmith’s, for _God’s sake_ —before waving a hand. “You’re…you’re all dismissed.”

* * *

Wash has to work harder and harder to put Tucker’s antics to the back of his mind, and he has to admit that Donut might have a point when Tucker finds a way to get even _more_ obvious during their next training session.

It’s getting difficult to convince himself that Tucker is just being _Tucker_ , particularly when—like now—Tucker is taking the hand Wash offered him after knocking him to the mat during sparring practice, and using the opportunity to feel up every inch of Wash’s arms as he stands. Particularly when Tucker winks at him and goes, “ _Damn_ , Wash. Bet those are some good arms for wall sex.”

Thing is, Tucker doesn’t _say_ stuff like that to other people. Not recently. He still makes lewd jokes and throws around inappropriate winks, but he isn’t putting nearly the same amount of effort into hitting on the rest of the base as he is to hitting on Wash.

“For— _what?_ ” Wash sputters. “How does—how does one have good arms for wall sex?”

Tucker shrugs. “Well, you know. You could hold someone up and just—just pound away without ever getting tired.”

The universe apparently hates Wash, Tucker walks over to the nearest wall and _demonstrates._ “Tucker,” Wash says, trying and failing to keep from blushing as Tucker does something unspeakably obscene with his hips. “ _Will you please come over here and focus on the lesson?!_ ”

 _He’s just being Tucker,_ Wash reminds himself, as Tucker sashays back over to him. _Just Tucker._

“I’m just complimenting your awesome wall sex arms, dude,” Tucker says, the perfect picture of innocence, and Wash desperately tries to get his blushing under control.

“Well…well. Thanks. Tucker,” he pauses, glancing at Tucker out of the corner of his eye. “I suppose they _are_ pretty good for stamina.”

Tucker’s jaw drops a little before his whole face splits into a grin. “Mmm. I _bet_ they are.”

He _isn’t_ imagining that. He _can’t_ be. Tucker looks ready to eat him alive. Or is that how he always looks at people training him? He doesn’t look at Carolina like that, does he? Wash can’t quite be _sure_ —

 _Focus,_ he tells himself firmly, and shoves all thoughts of Tucker and his bedroom eyes aside. “Anyway,” he says, trying to sound authoritative and not flustered. “Anyway. Judo throws. Let’s get back to it.”

“Whatever you say, _sir_ ,” Tucker says, in what is most definitely _not_ a seductive tone. Most. Definitely _. Not._

After a few more minutes, Tucker settles down enough to focus on their actual training. Wash has learned that it’s best to let him get it out of his system first— _“it”_ used to mean his whining and complaining, although recently _“it”_ more aptly describes his pick-up line practice—before trying to get him to focus.

The thing is, Tucker’s _good_. Particularly at hand-to-hand. He’s a decent shot with a rifle as well, but it’s clear that he’s meant for close-quarters combat. They haven’t had a breakthrough in knife training yet, but Tucker is trying, and getting a little better each day. His hand-to-hand combat, however, is improving by leaps and bounds. He’s fast, movements confident and sure, and the practices are becoming more and more of a challenge for Wash as well.

It’s _fun_ , sparring with Tucker. There’s something light and easy between the two of them when they sink into a rhythm, and he often feels like he’s just hanging out with a friend as opposed to training someone. Tucker’s movements are unpredictable, and it keeps Wash on his toes.

The square up to do some light sparring—no armor, but no gloves, either. “Focus on the takedown,” Wash tells Tucker, and it isn’t long before they fall into a comfortable groove. Tucker’s brow is furrowed in concentration as his eyes track Wash’s movements, and although he has to move _quickly_ , Wash is able to avoid his hits and takedowns, until he’s spinning to the left and—

He either reads Tucker’s body language wrong or Tucker really _has_ gotten just that fast when he’s paying attention, because he fires off a roundhouse kick at the exact moment that Wash spins to the left. Tucker’s shin connects with his ribs and knocks all the breath from his body, and the next thing Wash knows he’s flat on his back blinking dazedly up at the ceiling.

“Holy _shit!_ ” Tucker’s hovering over him, horrified. “ _Fuck_ me! Tell me I didn’t re-break your ribs, please tell me I’m not gonna be the sixth time you’ve broken them, fucking fuck I didn’t mean to kick you that hard! See, _this_ is why we need to wear sparring gear you crazy fucker—”

“Tucker, it’s okay,” Wash says, once he’s able to breathe again. He props himself up on his elbows placing a hand gingerly on his ribs. “They’re not broken.”

“Like you’d tell me if they were,” Tucker mutters, dropping to his knees beside Wash. “C’mon, let me see.”

“They’re fine,” Wash protests, albeit a little breathlessly. “It was just a good kick. A _really_ good kick, actually. Nice job.”

Tucker averts his eyes for a moment. “Thanks. Although, you shouldn’t be thanking me for nearly fucking kill you.” He hesitates, hands hovering over Wash’s torso. “Can I?”

Wash tuts impatiently. “You’re not going to be able to _see_ if they’re cracked, Tucker.”

“Well, it’ll make me _feel_ better.”

“Fine, fine.” Wash gestures. “Go ahead.”

Tucker rolls up his shirt gingerly, prodding at Wash’s ribs. “Okay, well…everything looks… _normal,_ here. Yeah. Normal.”

Wash rolls his eyes. “See? I told you.”

But Tucker is still staring at his torso, fascinated. “Dude, you have _so_ many scars.”

“You’ve seen my scars before,” Wash says, mouth going unexpectedly dry. He should move. He needs to move. He knows that look on Tucker’s face and he should _move_ —

“Yeah, I know,” Tucker says. “They were kinda hard to miss when you were training shirtless the other day. You know. When you were trying your _hardest_ to drive me crazy.”

“My shirt was wet,” Wash says intelligently. “I had to take it off.”

“Hmmm,” Tucker says. “Kay. Whatever you say, Wash.”

Tucker’s eyes travel across to his other side, to where the burn scars stretch down his ribs. “Those are burn marks, aren’t they? Is that from when you were tortured? The one that made you afraid of fire?”

Tucker takes his hand and traces his fingertips along the puckered skin as he speaks, and Wash gasps. The thing that shoots through him is so _foreign_ and half-forgotten that he jolts, thinking his skin is on fire again. He grabs at Tucker’s hand, intending to push him away, but in his haste he flattens Tucker’s palm out against his ribs. The feeling intensifies, and he is _burning,_ the place where Tucker’s touching his bare skin tingling and searing—

Tucker’s staring at him with wide eyes, frozen. “What? _What?_ Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Wash says, and why, _why_ is his voice so high and strangled? “No, it doesn’t hurt, it…”

It _doesn’t_ hurt, not at all, his skin is on _fire_ but there’s no pain, it feels—

It _feels—_

Tucker tilts his head, confused, but he _still hasn’t moved his hand_. Wash hasn’t moved either. He’s too shocked, too elated, at this feeling that he’d thought gone forever, this heat that’s spreading from where Tucker’s palm rests all the way out to his fingers and toes. He should move. He should _move_ , he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be _feeling_ this, but his limbs have gone weak and heavy under Tucker’s touch, and they won’t listen to the directions from his muddled brain.

The frozen, confused look on Tucker’s face changes suddenly, his eyes turning dark and curious. He moves his thumb a little, in soothing, reassuring circles before he moves his whole hand. He drags his palm slowly, from Wash’s ribs to rest low on his abdomen, directly above where his belly is pulling and twisting like liquid fire, the heating spreading and sparking along his skin. Tucker’s still watching him with that dark, questioning look in his eyes, his fingertips trailing _just_ below the band of Wash’s sweatpants, and Wash can’t _breathe_ ; he moves his legs restlessly and tries to _think_ —

The training room door swings open with a bang, and the group of Feds Wash is supposed to be training next comes storming in, laughing and talking. Tucker pulls back in one smooth motion, rising to his feet and offering a hand to Wash. Wash takes it, allows Tucker to help him up, holds Tucker’s hand for a beat too long and says, “Thanks.”

Tucker—Tucker _smirks_ at him and says, “Don’t thank me yet,” in a voice that’s _nothing_ like his usual, sleazy pick-up voice, but something velvet and unwavering, and he turns and fucking _saunters_ out of the room without a backwards glance.

* * *

It’s hours later before Wash collapses onto his bed, blessedly alone with the door locked. The day had at least been a busy one, and he’d had no time to think about what may or may not have almost happened between him and Tucker in the training room.

Now, though—

Now he needs to _focus_. Wash sits up on his bunk, leaning back against the wall and folding his legs. He puts his hand where Tucker’s had been, on his ribs, and then traces it down to where it had rested so _low_ on his abdomen, right above where Wash’s insides had been pulling and twisting in a way that he hadn’t felt in years, when he’d felt…he’d _felt_ …

He’d felt… _hot,_ and, well. _Bothered._

Which he’d _thought_ was impossible. He hadn’t felt even _slightly_ hot and bothered since Freelancer, since before _Epsilon_ , since before his head had been ripped apart. There had been brain damage, he knows, his doctor, Tronosky, had explained it to him multiple times but they’d driven Tronosky away before he’d been able to fully comprehend his words and what they meant. Wash had lost _so_ much from his years in recovery, and there had been no shortage of consequences. Memory loss, panic attacks, sometimes hallucinations, and other problems that he was still, to this day, figuring out.

 _Including_ , he’d thought, the complete loss of his sex drive.

It had been a long time before he’d even noticed that he hadn’t gotten an erection since before Epsilon. He’d had far, _far_ more important things to think about in recovery, and it wasn’t until he was a few months out that the thought had crossed his mind. He remembers several times sitting in his bunk, just like this, trying to get something going, but there had been nothing, no reaction at all.

 _It’s fine_ , he had told himself, and it largely was. He couldn’t imagine ever relaxing enough to actually be with someone again, and while it _would’ve_ been nice to jerk off every now and then, it wasn’t the worst thing in the world. That part of his life was over.

Until—

Wash closes his eyes and thinks again of Tucker, and the way his palm against Wash’s skin had burned and blazed. His eyes had gone dark and curious and _deliberate,_ and Wash wonders with a thrill of excitement what would’ve happened if the door _hadn’t_ opened. If Tucker would’ve moved his hand even lower, if his touch would’ve been confident and deliberate or tantalizing and _slow_ —

And suddenly— _just like that,_ like it’s no big deal, like it happens _all the time_ — he is hard. Wash’s eyes fly open and he gets his hand in his pants, peering down and _yep_ , there’s his dick, ready to go, actually _hard_ for the first time in years and _holy fuck_ he’s not going to waste it.

He wraps a hand around himself and thinks, after a moment of guilty hesitation, of Tucker, and the training room. Thinks of Tucker slipping his hand all the way under the band of Wash’s sweatpants to rub at him, just enough to be deliberate but not enough to fully satisfy. Thinks of Tucker pushing Wash’s shoulders down to climb on top of him, thinks of Tucker _kissing_ him—Wash latches onto this, onto the thought of Tucker’s mouth. His lips looked so soft Wash wonders how they’d feel on his own, how they’d feel sucking on his neck, or traveling down, down, down, and he thinks of Tucker’s mouth on his cock and then he’s coming all over his hand, his sweats, the bed, shaking from both the pleasure and the pain of his first orgasm in so long.

“Oh my god,” he says out loud, and laughs a little. It’s not until he’s stumbling over to grab a towel and clean himself off and change the sheets that it hits him, _really_ hits him: that it’s _Tucker_ , Tucker who just got him off, who he has to train with, _alone,_ six days out of the week, Tucker, who he _isn’t supposed to be flirting with._

Tucker, who is beautiful, and brave, and no matter what Donut says, far, _far_ too good for him.

“Ah, _fuck_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //sigh let's just. all resign ourselves to the fact that this is gonna be like 200k, yeah?
> 
> (okay but really would it surprise anyone if grey's was still running 500 years into the future because)
> 
> ANYWAY. THIS CHAPTER WAS KIND OF A DOOZY, so thank you to my beta [Melissa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniMax/pseuds/MiniMax) for helping me do some serious trouble-shooting, and also to my friend [Egg](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eggstasy/pseuds/eggstasy), for using her genius brain to help me figure out wash's nightmare scene. <3 TRUST ME, I COULD NOT WRITE THIS FIC ALONE. SOMETIMES IT REQUIRES A VILLAGE.
> 
> NOW
> 
> Allow me to direct your attention to the AMAZING, GLORIOUS fanart that has been inspired by this fic! I am blown away by the sheer talent in this fandom, and pretty goddamn overwhelmed that such incredible people want to draw art for a thing that I wrote. I was half-convinced my kudos and hit counter were broken over the past week, until I realized that the art was probably bringing in some new readers! So THANK YOU FOR THAT, LOVELIES, and for making my day, and for using your skill to share such amazing fan content. At some point I'm going to link each art piece at the bottom of it's respective chapter, but for now, here's the list. IF I HAVE MISSED ANY PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE LET ME KNOW! Tumblr is really bad about letting me know when I'm tagged in stuff. Now, do yourself a favor and feast your eyes upon the glory:
> 
> >>>[Wash in the sunlight](http://guiltypleasuretrashblog.tumblr.com/post/144881533436/there-is-a-moment-between-one-slow-blink-and-the) by [guiltypleasuretrashblog](http://guiltypleasuretrashblog.tumblr.com/)  
> >>>[Knife training](http://papanorth.tumblr.com/post/145680814206/theres-no-shame-in-being-afraid-of-the-thing) by [papanorth](http://papanorth.tumblr.com)  
> >>>[Wash's dramatic shirt removal](http://adobewanphotobi.tumblr.com/post/146026667906/scene-from-this-fic-by-littlefists-because-its) by [adobewanphotobi](http://adobewanphotobi.tumblr.com)  
> >>>[Wash in the rain](http://goodluckdetective.tumblr.com/post/145957381670/there-it-is-the-warm-safe-feeling-that-hed-felt) and ['you're so fucked'](http://goodluckdetective.tumblr.com/post/145928032065/guess-who-caught-up-with-littlefists-newest) by [goodluckdetective](http://goodluckdetective.tumblr.com/)  
> >>>[Sarge and Donut's mess hall shenangigans](http://powerfulpomegranate.tumblr.com/post/145921135185/thank-you-littlefists-for-this-gift-uu) by [powerfulpomegranate](http://powerfulpomegranate.tumblr.com/)  
> >>>Last but not least, chapters [one](http://hammeredpaint.tumblr.com/post/143822797935/put-my-guns-in-the-ground), [two](http://hammeredpaint.tumblr.com/post/144166995875/put-my-guns-in-the-ground), [three](http://hammeredpaint.tumblr.com/post/144523152425/put-my-guns-in-the-ground), and [six](http://hammeredpaint.tumblr.com/post/145578900130/i-am-literally-half-naked-running-around-my) by my MULTI-TALENTED BETA, [hammeredpaint](http://hammeredpaint.tumblr.com/) (she may or may not have an [etsy store](https://www.etsy.com/shop/KenneyKutOuts?ref=hdr) to sell her art. I'm just saying).
> 
> (And now I'm all emotional after compiling this list because I never thought anyone would want to draw fanart for a thing that I wrote, LET ALONE MULTIPLE FANARTS. WTF GUYS. STOP MAKING ME CRY <3)


	9. Chapter 9

Tucker isn’t sure how he can be expected to get anything productive done _ever again_ now that he knows just how _melty_ Wash can get.

Sensitive. Responsive. Clearly starved for affection. Whatever. All of those words applied, but none of them fit quite as well as _melty_. That was what Wash had done under his touch in the training room the other day: he’d started to _melt_ , and now Tucker still can’t fucking _think straight_.

He knows they’re in the middle of a war. He knows that the stakes are high, that there are peoples’ _lives_ on the line, that he should be paying attention to this meeting that he’s currently sitting in. He really and truly _knows_ that.

The problem is that Wash is also attending the meeting, which makes focusing impossible. All Tucker can think about is how Wash had pressed _up_ into Tucker’s hand when he’d laid it across his ribs. It had made Tucker feel horny and protective and tender all at once, an admittedly weird mix of feelings, but since the horny part was the most _pressing_ , he didn’t question it.

Jesus _fuck_ , it’s too much to keep in his head. He’s going to lose his mind just thinking about it, but he can’t _stop_ thinking about it because Wash’s eyes _are wide and dazed as he blinks up at Tucker from the training mats. He’s propped up on his elbows, Tucker hovering over him with his hand pressed tight to Wash’s side. His breath is coming shaky and shallow, and Tucker suspects it’s no longer from the roundhouse kick that knocked him down. Tucker’s own eyes travel all over Wash’s features, taking in the flushed cheeks, the slightly parted lips, the messy hair, the bewildered eyes. Tucker_ knows _that face. There’s confusion, and tension, and uncertainty, but—_

_There is also want._

_Tucker moves his hand ever so slightly, trailing it from Wash’s ribs to rest low on his abdomen. Wash’s eyes flutter at the movement and he swallows hard as Tucker dips his fingertips below the band of Wash’s sweatpants, then back up. He does it again, trailing them further this time, to drag underneath the band of Wash’s briefs. He wonders if Wash is even aware of the way he’s squirming, legs and hips moving restlessly to try to urge Tucker’s hand lower. Tucker allows himself one more teasing brush just above where Wash wants it before dipping lower still to wrap his hand around Wash’s half-hard dick. Wash gasps, head tipping backwards as Tucker slowly strokes. He can feel Wash’s cock is hardening in his grip and when he swipes his thumb over the tip, Wash’s hips snap forward. Wash is biting his lip hard, fists clenched, and Tucker can see that he’s desperately trying to get himself under control, which—_

_Unacceptable._

_He moves forward and attaches his lips to the cluster of freckles nestled in Wash’s collarbone, and is rewarded when Wash groans between gasps. Tucker keeps it up, all suction and teeth on Wash’s neck, and before long Wash is wilting back onto the mats, hands winding hesitantly into Tucker’s hair. Tucker moves his hand faster and lines his own dick up with Wash’s thigh, grinding hard. Wash groans again at the contact, hands tightening in Tucker’s hair and oh yeah, more of that, yes_ please _. “Tucker,” Wash pants, right into his ear. “Tucker—”_

“Tucker! _Are you listening?_ ”

Tucker snaps reluctantly out of what was shaping up to be an absolutely A- _plus_ daydream to blink at a Wash who is not, in fact, melting beneath his touch, but glaring at him from across the room. “Yes, I’m listening, _geez._ ”

“Oh, really?” Wash says dryly. “Then why didn’t you answer me the first three times I called your name?”

 _I was thinking about how badly I want to fuck you on the training room floor._ “Well, if you _really_ wanna know—”

“I don’t. I really don’t, Tucker. What I _want_ is for you to pay attention to what Carolina and Epsilon are saying about the manifest they decrypted. This is _important._ It could be the difference between _life and death_.” Wash folds his arms. “Understood?”

“Understood… _sir_.” Tucker says, drawing out the last word deliberately. _Bet I could get you to call_ me _sir. Bet I could get you to drop and give me twenty just for the_ chance _to suck my dick._

It probably wouldn’t even take all that much. Wash was so _responsive,_ had _jolted_ like he’d been electrocuted when Tucker touched his skin; and all Tucker can think about is how he could make Wash feel so good that he’d scream the walls of the base down.

Now, though, Wash has his disapproving helmet tilt on fucking _lock,_ so Tucker reluctantly tunes back into the conversation. Epsilon has been rambling on and on for about a thousand years about what he had decrypted from the manifest they’d retrieved before the disaster at the tower. He’s in the middle of talking about Charon Industries, and Wash and Carolina are exchanging what Tucker can tell are darkly significant looks, even with both of their helmets on. Which, _yeah,_ Tucker supposes it’s kind of fucked up that Charon Industries has their hand in this, but they’d been systematically working to wipe out an entire _planet_. It was fucked up no matter who was behind it. Honestly, Tucker really couldn’t care less about the labels of it. A quick glance around the room proves that the rest of the Reds and Blues feel similarly.

“…and the CEO’s name,” Epsilon concludes dramatically, “Is _Malcolm Hargrove_.”

Silence. Wash and Carolina exchange yet another dramatic glance.

“Uh,” Tucker ventures. “Who?”

“Malcolm _Hargrove_ ,” Epsilon emphasizes, sounding rather disgruntled that his delivery of such news didn’t get a bigger reaction. Tucker figures he and Carolina have probably been rehearsing this revelation to each other for at least two days. Carolina herself seems beyond words. “The oversight sub-committee chairman? Of _Project Freelancer?_ ”

More blank staring. Epsilon sighs loudly. “He literally _shook all of your hands_ after we took down Freelancer?!”

Oh, yeah. Tucker rolls his eyes. “Oh- _ho_ , my god, you mean, it was some corrupt old white dude all along? Holy shit. What a revelation.”

Epsilon is looking seriously annoyed now. “Really? You guys don’t…you don’t care. At all? Not even a little?”

Grif yawns so loudly Tucker is pretty sure he hears his jaw crack from across the room. “Man, if we could give two fucks to rub together over that then Simmons here wouldn’t be a virgin.”

Simmons bristles. “ _Excuse_ me? That doesn’t—that doesn’t even make any sense!”

“Rubbing fuck,” Tucker snickers, then eyes Wash. “I’m into that. Wash. Hey Wash, so you know? I’m _into_ that.”

“I heard you, Tucker,” Wash says through gritted teeth. “In fact, I think everyone heard you.”

“Apparently they _didn’t!_ ” Epsilon sputters “Because if they did, then they would care more—”

“Ah, um, Church, I think I know why everyone is confused,” says Caboose. “See, you are pronouncing crayon wrong.”

“It’s Charon, Caboose. _Charon._ ”

“Charon, smaron!” Sarge blusters. “Aquaman’s right. We don’t give a rat’s ass about the withertoos and the whyfors! All we care about is when we’re gonna get to kick some mercenary ass!”

Tucker steals a glance at Carolina, who has finally overcome her agitation enough to speak. “Alright, _enough_. I called you all in here because we need to strategize—this is important—”

“Drink,” Grif says suddenly, and everyone on Red Team makes noises of assent and acknowledgement.

Carolina stares at him. “Drink—what does that mean?”

“Oh, it’s a super-fun game we invented!” Donut says brightly. He’s in the middle of pulling up some sort of chart on his datapad. “We keep track of how many times in a day Carolina says _‘this is important’_ or _‘enough,’_ or Wash’s voice cracks or Caboose breaks something—et cetera, et cetera, and then, when we have time, we take a shot!”

“You can’t _actually_ take shots every time those things happen,” Tucker scoffs. “You’d all be _dead_.”

“You’re right,” Grif says, “because we _also_ take note of how many times you hit on Wash, so—”

“ _Ooh_ , what’s the tally on that?” Tucker asks, craning his head to see over Simmons’ shoulder. He frowns. “Damn. My max is only thirteen pick-up lines a day? I gotta step it up.”

“We don’t always take actual shots,” Grif says. “Sometimes we make a competition out of it, like—today I think that Wash and Tucker will _actually_ fuck on the training room floor in full view of the entire army.”

“Bonus points if you guess the position!” Donut quips. “Personally, I’ve got my money on cowgirl—”

Tucker snickers as Wash starts making indignant noises. “Can I get in on that action?”

“Enough,” Carolina says loudly. “This—”

“ _Ocho_ ,” Lopez notes, and all of Red Team marks something down on their datapad.

Carolina swells. “ _If you don’t all pay attention_ —”

“Wait, C, hang on. I got this.” Epsilon looks around the room thoughtfully. “I was _thinking_ we’d try to intercept a call between the mercs and the Chairman. How would you guys feel about sticking it to them via a _motivational speech?_ ”

Sarge pauses, turning to Epsilon slowly. “Well? Go on, little junebug. What _kind_ of motivational speech?”

“Alright. Got a little something here that I’ve been working on.”  Epsilon clears his throat importantly, standing up. “ _Dear Chairman_ …”

It takes the rest of the afternoon to get their speech through to the Chairman. First they have to agree on the actual language of the speech, then who would deliver, then who would stand in which position for maximum effect. Tucker has a blazing row with Sarge on who gets to stand in front, but eventually, Tucker wins: _got-stabbed-by-a-merc_ trumps _Red-team-leader,_ no matter how passionately Sarge argues otherwise.

Another hour goes by before they finally manage to lock onto the correct radio code. Tucker has to admit it’s worth it once they get through and cut Felix and Locus off in the middle of their dumb conversation: there’s a certain tension in the air, a tingling electricity that can be felt over the radio. After Church’s climatic finish— _ps, suck our balls_ — the radio cuts out and they all break into a round of snickering and patting each other on the back. It feels _good_ , Tucker thinks, and he can’t understand why both Carolina and Wash still look so tense until Carolina clears her throat.

“There’s something else,” she says, and after several more attempts, they all fall quiet. “As you all know; I have been scouting around some local storehouses to see if we can find some more ammunition. Yesterday, I found some.”

Tucker straightens at that news, unsure of why it makes him feel so uneasy. He had known Carolina and Church were in charge of running recon, but actually hearing that they were out there with little to no back-up makes Tucker’s gut twist. He chances a glance at Wash. Wash has his arms folded across his chest and, although Tucker can’t see his face, he knows it’s wearing a worried frown.

“Okay…” Simmons says slowly, glancing around the room. The atmosphere is grower tenser by the second. “So…so what does that mean?”

“It means we’re gonna go and get them, numnuts!” Sarge puffs himself up. He holds a hand out to Carolina. “Now, you just hand over those battle plans, little lady, and I’ll take care of everything from here.”

“That’s quite alright, Sarge,” Carolina says. “I’ll assign the mission directives.”

Tucker scoffs. “ _Please_. Just tell us what to do, and we’ll get it done.”

“How is _that,_ exactly?”

“We’ll…I don’t know, wing it.” Tucker shrugs. “It works for us. Like, all the time.”

Carolina exchanges another look with Wash, who sighs. “We’re not all going, Tucker.”

Tucker frowns. “Why not?”

“We can’t…” Wash hesitates before his voice flattens out. “We can’t risk it. Something happening to all of us. It would destroy morale.”

“But, ahhhhhhh.” Tucker can hear the frown in Caboose’s voice. “But, ah. Agent Washington, we _always_ work together. Because when we split up, then you do stupid dramatic things, and we have to come rescue you, and I don’t want to play that game again. I’d rather play Monopoly instead.”

Wash sighs. “I know, buddy. We just...have to be careful here.”

“How many people are going?” Simmons asks.

“I don’t have many details yet,” Carolina says. “Wash and I will talk it over with Kimball and Doyle, and come up with a plan. We’ll update all of you soon.”

The meeting doesn’t last much longer than that. Before he leaves, Tucker glances again at Wash, who is already tapping away on his datapad. Probably trying to schedule the whole goddamn mission. Probably well on his way to driving himself crazy. Probably in dire of either a serious fuck or a serious hug.

_“When was the last time someone gave you a hug?”_

He’d asked Wash this once, back at Rockslide, when he’d walked into the kitchen to see Caboose wrapping Wash up in a big bear hug after what Tucker presumed to be a nightmare. Wash had just frozen, his arms going stiff and patting at Caboose’s back. Tucker could tell he’d wanted to push away, but he didn’t.

 _“I don’t remember,”_ Wash had said, and it’s only recently that Tucker really understood the gravity of those words.

He’s starting to suspect that Wash hadn’t so much as made out with someone in a long, _long_ time. He isn’t sure why the idea took so long to occur to him: of _course_ Wash wasn’t going to let someone kiss him or touch him or make him lose control. He barely trusted _himself_ most days. Trusting someone else to _fuck_ him? Yeah, _right._

Tucker has his trust, though.

Tucker _knows_ he does. Wash trusts Tucker to make sure Caboose takes his medicine, to have his back during battle, to lead a mission and train a squad. He values Tucker’s input, doesn’t flinch when their arms brush, trusts Tucker to make his coffee perfectly.

He trusts Tucker enough to let him hold his helmet in the rain.

The trust is _there_. All Tucker needs to do is show Wash that he can trust him with _this_ , too.

What Tucker needs is an opportunity. A chance to test things out when they’re not wearing ten billion pounds of armor.

* * *

 

Wash is tense and distracted over the next two days, constantly checking and rechecking his datapad for god knows what. In fact, Tucker can’t help but notice that _everyone_ is a little tense. The knowledge that their first mission since merging armies was not only far sooner than they were prepared for, but also vitally important, has everyone on edge. Carolina snaps at him through their entire lesson on footwork, Palomo starts crying during their session with the cadets, and Wash—the only time that Wash isn’t staring at a datapad or off into space is during his knife training lessons with Tucker. Which is hot, but Tucker can’t lie and say he wouldn’t rather that laser focus be on his hot body instead of the red _chalk_ on said hot body. Wash is all clenched jaws and narrowed eyes as he talks Tucker through several disarming techniques, and is utterly unresponsive to any of Tucker’s truly winning come-ons. Which, _lame_. Right when they were actually _getting_ somewhere.

When a haunted, truly dramatic look comes over Wash’s face after Tucker fumbles a pivot and ends up with chalk all over his neck, Tucker can’t take it anymore.

“Dude, do you think I’m gonna _die_ or something?”

Wash’s stops re-coating the knife with chalk. “What did you just say?”

“I mean...” Tucker gestures. “You’re acting like you’re preparing me for a duel to the death.”

“That’s not funny,” Wash says sharply. “Don’t joke about things like that.”

“Okay, _okay_ , relax, jesus. Look, we don’t even know that Felix is going to be _at_ this warehouse—with any luck, it’ll be a quick in and out job. Bow chi—”

Wash somehow finds a way to get even tenser. Tucker’s surprised his muscles haven’t snapped under the strain. “We can’t _rely_ on that, Tucker! Luck doesn’t last forever! We have to be prepared for every possible outcome! This isn’t the time to be _flippant_ —”

 _“_ Hey! _Stop yelling at me!”_

“I’m not yelling!”

“Yes, you fucking _are_! You know I can’t fucking concentrate when you do that!”

“Well, I can’t concentrate when you start making jokes about people _dying_ on missions! Why you find that _funny_ —”

“I never said it was _funny!_ ”

They’re both cross and irritable during the rest of their training session, and Tucker watches Wash leave the room with a sigh. If he knows Wash, he’s off to further brood. Tucker weighs the pros and cons of following Wash so he can blow him in the shower—orgasms are the perfect cure for tension—but ultimately decides that he needs to be a touch subtler. Jesus _Christ_ , he’s never worked so hard to get laid in all his life. Wash is forcing him to pull out all the stops, but in a way, it’s kind of exciting. Tucker’s never been able to wait out a slow burn before, but for once, he is convinced that the payoff will be more than worth it.

So Tucker lets Wash stalk off, and spends his own shower time rubbing one out to ease his own tension. If he can’t _actually_ blow Wash in the showers, he’s sure going to imagine the _fuck_ out of it, and if there’s one thing Tucker can say for himself, it’s that he has a very active imagination.

He doesn’t see Wash for the rest of the day. Tucker had pulled the shitty late-night guard duty shift with Ali, and the two of them wandered the perimeter for a while until Bitters and Britton came to relieve them.

He frowns when he gets back to his own hallway- Wash’s door is open, and a quick peek inside proves that Wash is nowhere to be seen. Tucker unsnaps all of his own armor and wanders the base for a while, and is unsurprised when he walks past the meeting room on his way back and finds Wash sitting at the table. He has three guns on set out neatly next to him, but his armor is nowhere to be seen. That’s even worse than him still being in it, because it means he went to his room, tried to sleep, and _came back here_.

“Dude, seriously?”

Wash glances up. “Oh, good. Can I get your opinion on something?”

“I mean, sure, but can it wait until morning?”

“What?” Wash asks absently, shuffling some more papers around.

Tucker sighs, resigned, and takes a seat across from Wash. The cranky tension from their earlier bickering is gone, at least, and the faster he humors Wash, the faster they can all go the fuck to sleep. _Preferably_ together. “Okay. What’s so _vitally_ important that it can’t wait until morning?”

“These numbers,” Wash says. “From the intel Carolina gathered, on the guns. They don’t make any sense. A warehouse this size—there has to be more than just a couple dozen boxes of ammunition.”

“So…” Tucker frowns. “What, you think there’s more ammunition? That’s good, right?”

“Maybe,” Wash says, “more ammunition, or something else in that warehouse. The numbers…they look _deliberately_ fudged.”

“Maybe they fudged them on purpose.”

“I suppose they could have,” Wash says slowly, “but why? How did they know we’d retrieve this data?”

“Just a precaution?”

“A precaution,” Wash says, “ _or_ a trap.”

Great. Just what they need. “So you’re saying we need more intel.”

“I’m _saying_ I think we also need to restructure this whole mission. More backup, and entering slowly, two by two, instead of a whole force. We need to scope out the situation before charging in there.”

Wash is frowning heavily at the papers, and Tucker looks at him suspiciously. “Dude, have you left this room for more than two seconds all day?”

“Hmm?” Wash throws him a half glance. “What? No, of course not, this mission is in a week and we can’t send people in there with this intel.”

“I’m not disagreeing with you, but you gotta take a break. You’re gonna drive yourself crazy.”

“I’m fine.”

“Wash. _Go to bed_.”

“In a bit,” Wash mutters, in that same distracted tone, and Tucker would bet his super badass sword that, if left to his own devices, Wash would still be sitting at this damn table come dawn.

Which is, quite frankly, unacceptable.

Well, no better time to test things out. Tucker gets up to wander around the other side of the desk as if he can’t see properly, and leans over Wash’s shoulder. “I still don’t get where you got these numbers from.”

“Look—right here. At this chart I drew up. The numbers don’t add up, see? A warehouse this size—there should be way more guards here.”

Tucker does see, and it’s a good point, one that they’re going to have to discuss, but right now he’s far more distracted by the fact that Wash hadn’t even flinched when Tucker walked up behind him. Wash hates people looming over him or standing out of his line of sight; they can’t go _anywhere_ without Wash checking the exits and making sure his back is to the wall.

Now, though—

Wash’s shoulders are loose, the lines of tension in his body only from the stress of the upcoming mission, not Tucker’s proximity. He’s still completely absorbed in the plans, and Tucker tries to remember if Wash has always been this at ease with Tucker at his back. They fight well together in the field, and he recalls several tense moments when he’s fought his way out of a situation with Wash’s back pressed tightly to his own, but this…had they always been like this? Comfortable? Easy?

Safe?

He’s so thrown by Wash’s non-reaction that his carefully chosen, extremely subtle words— _“I can think of something more exciting to do if we’re gonna be staying up so late—”_ die in his throat. 

This might call for Plan B.

“Tucker?” Wash asks somewhat absently, and Tucker realizes he’s been standing there staring at the back of Wash’s head. Probably a good thing Wash can’t see him. “Do you see what I mean?”

 “I think so..you mean here?” He leans closer, chest just brushing against Wash’s shoulder.

Wash pauses, his hand stilling from where it was scribbling numbers on a piece of paper before resuming. “That’s right,” he says calmly, and although his voice doesn’t stutter, he has gone very still, as if making a concerted effort to not pull away from Tucker’s touch.

A little more, then. “Hmmm.” Tucker leans closer still so that his lips are merely centimeters away from Wash’s ear. Casually. _Coincidentally._ “You think we need more people for the mission?”

There. Right there. Wash’s fingers noticeably tighten on the pencil as Tucker’s breath ghosts across his neck. “Yes,” he says, voice almost too steady, as if he’s forcing it to stay calm. “I believe so.”

“Okay,” Tucker says, and he sighs, long and low in Wash’s ear, relishing in the way Wash fidgets ever so slightly in his seat. “Okay, great.”

“Yeah,” Wash says. “Yeah.”

Tucker grins and, with another sigh, he pulls back, resting his hands on Wash’s shoulders. Wash jolts a little, but he doesn’t stiffen—more surprised than uncomfortable, Tucker thinks. He digs his thumbs into the knots of muscles bunched up in Wash’s shoulders and gets to work on kneading away the tension. “Okay, so, let’s do that, then. Gather some more intel, and up the numbers for the mission.”

“Right,” Wash says slowly. “Right, we’ll…. Tucker, _what_ are you doing?”

Tucker rolls his eyes. Wash will remain half oblivious when Tucker practically starts necking him, but _now_ he’s on high alert? “I’m giving you a massage, dude, what does it feel like I’m doing?”

“Oh,” Wash says. “Um, why?”

“Because you’re tense as fuck.” And he _is_ , almost worryingly so. “Seriously, you need to relax. There’s no way you aren’t sore from walking around like this all day.”

“I’m fine,” Wash says stiffly. Tucker resists the urge to throttle him.

“Kay. Whatever you say. I’m still gonna give you a massage.”

“You don’t…you don’t have to do that.”

“Well, I want to, how ‘bout that?” Tucker sighs. “Wash, _relax_. I mean, you know I’m not gonna _hurt_ you, right?”

“I know,” Wash says, surprised, and he half turns around to look at Tucker. “I know _that._ I just…”

“Does it not feel good?” Tucker asks, then can’t resist adding, “I can go harder, if you want. _Bowchickabowwow_.”

“It…no, it feels good,” Wash says slowly, like it’s a _problem_ , and Tucker realizes all at once what the issue is: that it _does_ feel good, and therefore, Wash thinks he can’t have it.

Wash is still half-craning his head to look at him. Tucker slides a hand up through Wash’s hair, making a gentle fist at the roots and tugging firm and slow until Wash’s head is resting back against Tucker’s shoulder, his gaze directed up at the ceiling. “ _Wash_. Relax,” he murmurs, right into the crook of Wash’s neck. “Just relax. Come on. _Put the pencil down_.”

Tucker’s not sure if it’s his words or his tone or the hand in his hair, but Wash does. He _does_. The pencil falls from his hand almost of its own accord, his hands limply coming to rest on the table. Tucker runs his fingers through Wash’s hair, giving it another authoritative pull before directing Wash’s gaze forward once more.

Tucker straightens, moves both hands back to Wash’s shoulders and digs in, much more firmly this time, and he knows he got the pressure right when Wash gasps. He kneads Wash’s shoulders harder still, making sure to pay attention to his arms and the back of his neck as well. Tucker’s careful not to stray too close to his implants, but he isn’t even sure if Wash would notice if he _did_ touch them. Wash keeps sighing, little hums of pleasure escaping his throat, and when he sways slightly in his seat Tucker pushes him gently forward.

Wash doesn’t protest this time, resting his hands on his forearms as Tucker moves to massaging his back. “Feel better?”

“Mmmhmm,” Wash sighs, and he lays there, Tucker rubbing large circles on either side of his spine. He’s utterly still until Tucker’s hands ghost along his sides right under his ribs, and he jumps, exhaling a shaky laugh.

Tucker freezes for a moment before grinning. “You ticklish, Wash?”

“Hah,” Wash pauses thoughtfully. “I, uh. I’m not sure, actually.”

Wash’s tone is neither morose nor pitying—it is only a simple statement of fact—but somehow, that’s even _worse._ Tucker knows Wash is fucked up. He knows Wash has nightmares, has _seen_ him after nightmares—he knows Wash doesn’t sleep and has panic attacks and memory issues and trust issues and probably intimacy issues, but this, _this_ , Wash not knowing if he’s ticklish or not, because he doesn’t _remember_ , because it’s probably been so long —

It _floors_ Tucker.

He clenches his jaw before laughing a little and dropping his forehead into the nook between Wash’s shoulder blades for a moment. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, dude. Well, let’s find out.”

He flutters his fingers right along Wash’s sides, and Wash jumps. The laughter peals out of him in a startled burst, and he squirms away, batting at Tucker’s arms. Tucker beams, delighted, and moves his fingers to dance along Wash’s stomach until Wash curls over, laughing, to grab at Tucker’s hands.

“Stop,” he gasps. “Stop. Not _fair_.”

“Oh, my _god,_ ” Tucker snickers. Wash still has their hands tangled together by his stomach, and Tucker likes the way it draws his arms around Wash in a protective embrace. “Oh, I am _so_ gonna use that against you in training.”

“You can’t!” Wash protests. “That’s cheating!”

“Hey, you’re always telling me to use whatever advantage I can in training! Is that or is that not an advantage?”

“It’s not a _fair_ one,” Wash grumps, and then the laughter is pealing out of him again as Tucker blows a raspberry right into the crook of his neck. “ _Tucker!_ ”

“Alright, alright,” Tucker straightens, glad Wash can’t see the stupid, moony grin on his face, and puts his hands back on Wash’s shoulders. “I’ll stop, I swear.”

“You will not,” Wash huffs, but he lets Tucker continue to massage his shoulders. Before long, his head has drifted back to the table of its own accord. Tucker works the tension out of his arms, his neck, his back, and Wash’s eyes flutter closed.

Tucker’s had some pretty awesome sexual experiences over the years. Like, truly _word-class_ , record-breaking kind of shit. Yet, this, right here, is _hands down_ the most sensual moment of his whole goddamn life: Wash, melting into his hands as Tucker kneads the tension out of his bones, little sighs and moans punching out of him. He realizes, with a thrill of excitement, that he could do _anything he wanted_ right now, and Wash would _let_ him—would, with the right amount of coaxing, probably even _beg_ him. Tucker’s halfway hard because _really_ , Wash just keeps making _noises_ that would drive anyone out of their mind, and Tucker would be lying if he said he wasn’t thinking about bending Wash right over this table and fucking him until they both saw God.

It’s this knowledge, that he could do whatever he wanted to Wash, that keeps him from doing it. Wash is half-asleep, half-delirious with endorphins and oxytocin, and even though he’s not _actually_ drugged up, Tucker can’t help but feel that he’d be taking advantage somehow.

So he doesn’t. For now, he doesn’t want to do anything to ruin this gentle, fragile trust that Wash has placed in him. He wants to keep it safe, cup it in his hands like water. He stays there, running his hands through Wash’s hair until Wash is limp and heavy and asleep, right there on the conference table.

They stay like that for over an hour. Tucker’s own back is starting to get sore, and he knows that he should try to get Wash into an actual bed, but every time he moves to wake Wash up, he just can’t do it. He’s sleeping, actually sleeping, his face slack and smushed up against his crossed forearms.

“ _Dude, you’re so fucked,”_ Grif had told him flatly during training, and Tucker sighs at the memory. He is. He _so_ is.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Tucker glances up sharply to see Carolina standing in the doorway, Epsilon hovering over her shoulder. They both have their arms crossed over their shoulders, helmets titled in disapproval. Jesus. You’d think they’d have been partnered up their whole life as opposed to a handful of months.

“What the fuck does it look like, Church? I’m giving Wash a massage. You want one, too?”

“Funny,” Epsilon grumps. “That’s—that’s _funny_ , Tucker.”

“Don’t start,” Tucker warns. “You said you were cool with it, so don’t start. And keep your goddamn voices down, you’ll wake him up.”

Carolina gives Epsilon a sideways glance before turning back to Tucker. “You should both be asleep. In actual beds.”

“Beds, plural,” Epsilon can’t resist adding. They ignore him.

Tucker gives Carolina a pointed look. “Yeah, so should _you_. At least _we’re_ out of armor. What the fuck are you _doing,_ anyway?”

“Just checking the perimeter,” Carolina says. Fucking _shameless_ , she is.

“Oh-ho! And it’s your turn to stand watch, is it?”

“Well—”

“Don’t bother, I know it’s not,” Tucker says, rolling his eyes. “We’re going, alright?”

Epsilon fidgets before blurting, “He’s ticklish. On his sides. You’ll wake him if you, if you..yeah. He’s ticklish.”

“Yeah,” Tucker says. “Yeah, I _know_ , Church.”

Epsilon jerks his head back a little surprised, before clearing his throat. “Oh. Well. Okay, then.”

Wash is starting to stir beneath Tucker’s hands. He mouths a fierce _GO_ towards Carolina and Church and, after some more unnecessary dramatic glances in Wash’s direction from Epsilon, they go.

Tucker sighs as Wash wakes up even more, humming and stretching and lifting his head slightly off the table. Tucker keeps rubbing up and down his spine before leaning down and brushing his lips over the top of Wash’s head. “Hey. C’mon. Let’s go to bed.”

“M’fine here,” Wash says, and Tucker smiles before reluctantly trailing his hands off of Wash’s back. He leans down, tugging on Wash’s arm to pull him to a stand. Wash blinks at him sleepily, running a hand through his hair and rumpling it up even further.

Tucker gathers up Wash’s guns and gestures with his head towards the door. “C’mon, let’s go.”

The walk back to their hallway is sleepy and quiet, Wash yawning hugely all the while. Tucker lays the guns out on the crate next to his bedside table—bullets left only in the battle rifle tucked under his bed, the way he’s seen Wash doing a million times—and when he straightens, Wash is leaning in the doorway watching him fondly.

“Thanks,” Wash says as Tucker heads past him back into the hallway. “Thanks. You didn’t…have to do that.”

“I know,” Tucker says, and he brushes Wash’s shoulder a little. “I wanted to, dude. Now go the fuck to sleep.”

Wash smiles at him and, before Tucker can make heads or tails of the situation, he reaches out a hesitant hand to brush some of Tucker’s dreads behind his shoulder. “Thanks,” he mutters again, then quickly backs into his room, leaving Tucker in the middle of the hallway positively beaming.

* * *

“So—s’then _Church_ is all, oh, Tuck—Tucker, be _careful_ , he’s ticklish! Be careful, Tucker! He’s _tick_ -lish!” Tucker drains the rest of his beer in one agitated gulp before slamming it back down onto the bar and turning to Grif in despair. “I mean, like, what the fuck doesee think I’m gonna do? _Tickle him to death?_ ”

Grif pauses in his desperate attempts to flag down the bartender to throw Tucker an unimpressed look. “Dude, come _on._ How much have you had to drink?”

“Not enough,” Tucker grumbles. They _have_ both been here for several hours—they’d high-tailed it out of the base less than five minutes after Tucker had cornered Grif during dinner and told him he needed a serious drink. Tucker had spent the entire day unable to fully process what had happened between him and Wash in the conference room. He’d felt a sudden wave of affection for Grif when he’d only gone for seconds of mashed potatoes, not third, and marched right out with Tucker to the bar that they’d all discovered during Operation Watermelon. This affection has only multiplied after four beers and three shots of whiskey.

Grif eyes him in alarm as Tucker slaps a hand on his shoulder. “Grif,” Tucker says. “You’re such a—succhhhagoo friend.”

“Bartender.” Grif waves his arm desperately at the bartender as she breezes by. “ _Bartender._ I need an alcohol. Please.”

The bartender pauses in the midst of juggling several bottles. “What kind of alcohol?”

“ _Any alcohol_.”

“Me too!” Tucker yells after her.  “An—an alcohol, _pleeesss_ and thank you!”

“ _No_ ,” Grif says, alarmed “No he does _not_ need—”

The bartender is already gone, to find them some alcohol. That’s nice. She’s so nice. Shook his hand and called him Captain and everything.

“I could’ve fucked him,” Tucker says solemnly, during the lull that follows the bartender’s absence. “I could’ve done it, Grif. Could’ve fucked him _right_ there on the table.”

“Please kill me,” Grif says to the ceiling.

“Wash,” Tucker clarifies. Just in case Grif was confused. “I coulda fucked _Wash_.”

“Yeah, I got that, Tucker. It’s all you’ve been saying for the last three hours.”

“M’ _serious,_ Grif. He was all—all relaxed and soft and—and _melty_. He was _melty,_ Grif.” Tucker slaps his hand back on Grif’s shoulder and drags it down his arm. “Melty like—like _that._ ”

“Thank god,” Grif mutters as their drinks arrive. He downs half of his in one gulp, makes a face, and slams it back on the bar. “Eh. Not bad.”

“Why, Grif?” Tucker asks, staring into his drink. “Why… why didn’t I fuck him?”

“Probably because you’re whipped.”

“Hey!” Tucker exclaims, frowning. “Hey. Thasnot…thasnot true. What, jus’ ‘cause I wanna…wanna make him _feel good,_ it means I’m whipped?”

Grif scrubs his hands over his face before peering at Tucker through his fingers. “I mean, dude. I still don’t understand when this even happened. You did nothing but complain about him after the crash. This was like, zero to one hundred. I feel like I have whiplash.”

“I missed him,” Tucker says, and even though he’s drunk off his ass, he still can’t quite look at Grif while he says it. “I fucking _missed_ him. When he was with the Feds. I miss’d Sarge and Donut too—” he shoots a glance at Grif “Don’t tell them that—bu…but Wash, it was like…it _hurt_. It hurt in _here_.”

Tucker slams a hand over his chest to demonstrate, and Grif sighs. He’s silent for a while before he says, “Yeah. You did. You missed him a lot.” He side-eyes Tucker. “You were really fucking annoying about it too.”

“Lissen Grif. _Lissen_.” Tucker wrenches his bar stool around until he’s facing Grif, who casts a despairing glance to the ceiling. “I am so good at making people feel…good. Ya know? N’Wash…Wash should feel good. He…he jus, he hates himself, ya know?”

“I’ll give you that.”

Tucker nods, encouraged. “Right? ‘S’like…’s’like....I mean, I wanna fuck him so good, like just…just suck his dick and make him go crazy.”

Grif groans, resting his forehead on the bar with a clunk. “God, Tucker, stop. Please. I will literally pay you to stop talking about sucking Wash’s dick. I do not want that mental image in my head.”

“Why?” Tucker asks, and when Grif doesn’t answer, he paws ineffectually at Grif’s shoulder. “Grif, _why?_ Who _wouldn’t_ want that in their head? S’all I can _think_ about.”

Grif snaps his head up and downs the rest of his drink. “Another alcohol, bartender!”

Oh. Right. Alcohol. Tucker fumbles a little with his drink before taking a sip and immediately gagging. “Fuck! What the fuck is this?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Grif says, and snatches Tucker’s drink out of his hand.

Tucker blinks as he finishes it, then shrugs and continues. “So anyway. I wanna fuck Wash, like, that is a _fact_ but...but I also just—I just wanna hold him. Y’know? Jus’ hold him. And rub his back. N’ his hair. Grif, his hair—his hair is so soft. _So_ soft.”

Grif groans before turning to Tucker. “Dude, just—jus’ make a move already, ya know? _Fuck_ it.”

For the first time, Tucker notices that his voice is slurring a little as well, and he puts a hand on Grif’s forearm. “I know. I know, dude. But this isn’t…isn’t some fling, y’know? It’s…it’s Wash. I need all my best moves. It’s gotta—it’s gotta be right.”

Grif widens his eyes, tugging the drinks the bartender sets down a little closer. “You love him.”

“I…” Tucker pauses, considering. “I…fuck man, I don’t _know_. I mean, I mean…I’ve hardly thought of anyone else when I jerked off in like…two weeks. Like, three quarters of what gesssme off these days is _Wash_. Izzat love? I ‘unno, man. I just don’t know.”

“So…so what, you gonna like, date him?”

 “I just…wanna be there for him. Like, hold him after a nightmare, y’know?”

“You mean, a nightmare like the one I’ve been having during this whole conversation?” Grif mumbles, but Tucker can tell he’s full of shit.

“You’re full of shit,” he tells Grif, and pats his shoulder affectionately.

“Whatever,” Grif grunts. “Just…jus’ make a move already. Okay? I can’t deal with you making puppy eyes at him for another goddamn sec’n.”

“Well, doesn’t this look fun!”

They both turn to see Donut standing behind their bar stools. “Donut!” Tucker exclaims, and slaps a hand on his shoulder as well. “Have a drink with us!”

Donut eyes him, then eyes Grif, then eyes the stack of glasses on the bar next to him. “Well, now, that’s quite a lot of alcohol.”

“Don’t judge me,” Grif mutters. “You’d need a lot of alcohol too if you had to listen to Tucker talk about fucking Wash for the last three hours.”

Donut huffs. “Alright, listen up. Simmons and I have been covering for you two all evening and….wait. You’re talking about _Wash?_ ”

“Oh god.”

“Well in that case…” Donut drags a bar stool over and sets it behind them, clambering on. “Do tell.”

“I jus—I just—” Tucker takes a deep breath as Grif rests his forehead on the bar. “ _I just_ —”

“He gave Wash some stupid massage in the meeting room and didn’t fuck him even though he could have, it just didn’t seem right, he needs all his best moves, he just wants to hold Wash and make him feel good in every godddamn sense of the word, and also he wants to pet Wash’s hair like a weirdo.” He lifts his head slightly to glare at Tucker. “Did I get it all?”

“Verrry funny, Grif,” Tucker grumps, and startles as Donut clasps his hands solemnly.

“Tucker, you have to tell Wash all of that!”

Tucker shakes his head impatiently. “Donut—Donut. I need my best moves here. I need to…to finesse. The suit-ation requires finesse.”

Donut is looking rather pained. “But…but don’t you think you should just sit down and talk to him about it? Like, talk about your feelings?”

“No…no, trust me.”

“Tucker. Trust _me._ I really, _really_ think you should talk to him.”

“Finesse, Donut. Fin-esse.”

Donut groans, and leans between them towards the bartender. “Shanelle!”

The bartender turns. “Franklin! A glass of merlot?”

“Yes, please.” He turns to Tucker with a sigh. “I think I’m gonna need it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAJOR credit goes to [Egg](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eggstasy/pseuds/eggstasy) for her help with the dialogue between the Reds and Blues when Epsilon is talking to them all about Hargrove. Like MAJOR credit. Some of those lines are hers word for word from our skype convo and because she is a darling angel, she told me to feel free to use them, and I did, because they are perfect and exactly what I wanted so thANK YOU EGG FOR ALL YOU DO 
> 
> More fanart! //makes heart eyes THANK YOU ALL OMFG I AM DYING:
> 
> >>>[Wash & Donut](http://goodluckdetective.tumblr.com/post/146282103295/goodluckdetective-donut-stares-into-the) by [goodluckdetective](http://goodluckdetective.tumblr.com/)  
> >>>[Wash in the rain](http://powered-by-fanart.tumblr.com/post/146073955876/a-little-drawing-of-a-scene-from-put-my-swords-in) by [powered-by-fanart](http://powered-by-fanart.tumblr.com/)  
> >>>[Wash in the sun](http://cleverest-url.tumblr.com/post/146340544185/i-drew-agent-washington-in-a-scene-from-this-fic) by [cleverest-url](http://cleverest-url.tumblr.com/)
> 
> so! I am going to RTX this weekend (//SCREAMS). My husband and I will be there for eight days, which means I'll be there next Tuesday. I'm gonna try my hardest to update as I'll still be writing on vacation, but I have no idea how our days are gonna go- so, if next week's update is a few days late, that's why!
> 
> also, feel free to come say hi to me at RTX if that's your thing! :) I'll be the chick [cosplaying as Tex](http://littlefists.tumblr.com/post/146583442224/12-sheets-of-foam-10-sticks-of-glue-14-cans-of) and I'll probably be like, crying in the RVB panel or something ridiculous. Hubby and I are bringing lots of fun games to play in line SO COME JOIN US IF YOU WANT!
> 
> Thank you all, as always, for reading, and for your support. I couldn't do this without you guys. <3


	10. Chapter 10

Wash steps back to observe the obstacle course he’s just finished setting up with a critical eye. It’s good, he notes, challenging without being disheartening. Some obstacles require strength, some, dexterity, and almost _all_ of them require teamwork to get through.

And _that_ , right there, is the problem.

Individually, the Federalist and New Republic soldiers have improved remarkably in the past weeks. Kimball and Doyle have both thanked him several times over for his efforts, although Wash isn’t sure how much he deserves it. He has by no means worked _miracles_ : he has simply given the News some structure, and shown the Feds a thing or two about improving their accuracy. Playing to his strengths, just like Carolina had suggested.

None of this is going to help him figure out how to get two groups of people who hate each other to work together. _How_ he’s supposed to pull that off when he himself has absolutely _no_ social graces is a mystery. This should be a task for a normal, happy person, not a paranoid, ex-spec ops soldier who turns into an emotional wreck at the mere suggestion of a simple wine and cheese night with friends. That’s not even taking into account the utter _mess_ he’s making out of this _crush_ he has on Tucker—

_No._

He can’t think about Tucker, or the way his hands had felt on Wash’s shoulders, or the way his smile simultaneously turned Wash’s legs to jelly and made him want to turn Tucker’s _own_ legs to jelly. _Focus._ He needs to focus. He needs to figure out how to make these two armies connect, how to turn enemies into friends.

Friends.

The solution that comes to him is so simple, so _obvious_ , that he isn’t sure how it took him this long to see it. A slow grins spreads across his face as the idea blossoms. _Wash_ is no good at making friends, but he knows someone who is—someone who declared Wash his friend without a second thought, despite having every reason to hate him.

Wash thumbs through to the text-reader on his HUD and fires off a message:

WSH: Hey, buddy. I could use your help with a training exercise in about an hour. Are you free?

* * *

Ten minutes later, Caboose comes thundering into the training room. His arms are full of various pieces of armor that he hasn’t finished putting on yet, and his chest plate is askew. “Agent Washington!” he yells, slamming the door behind him. “I came as fast as I could!”

“Thanks, Caboose, although you didn’t have to rush…” Wash reaches out to straighten Caboose’s chest plate and stops him from sealing one of his shoulder pieces. “No no, that one goes on the _other_ arm.”

He finishes snapping the rest of Caboose’s armor on—not an easy task, as Caboose continues to bounce around excitedly. “What are we doing today?”

“I’m training the two armies together for the first time today.” Wash gestures at the course in front of them. “As you can see, I’ve set up an obstacle course for them to run—Caboose, _wait!_ ”

Yelling proves futile as Caboose is already well in the midst of the course, vaulting over a wall that Wash was certain would take two people to clear. “I like this game!”

Wash sighs, resigned, but watches in fond amazement as Caboose completes the course with hardly any difficulty at all. He clears the last obstacle and skids to a halt in front of Wash, breathing only slightly heavier than normal. “How did I do? Did I win?”

“You did…well, that was…frankly _amazing_ , Caboose, but _you_ didn’t need to run it. I’m going to have the Feds and the New run it. I want them to work together. You may have noticed that they…don’t like each other much.”

“Hmm…” Caboose pauses thoughtfully. “Yeah, see, I just think that’s very silly. Because Andersmith likes chocolate and Fitz likes chocolate and you would think that they would look at each other and say, _oh!_ We both like something! Let’s share, and be friends! But they don’t. It’s very confusing.”

“ _Exactly_ , Caboose, exactly. That’s where _you_ come in.”

“Me?”

“Yes. I was hoping that you could help them all become friends today.” Wash pauses. “You know. Help them work together.”

“Well, of course Wash!” Caboose beams at him, and though he can’t see it through the helmet, Wash can tell. He _always_ can. “But, _aah_. Why do you need my help with that?”

“Because you’re…well. You’re very good at making friends.”

Caboose nods wisely. “Yes, I am. But so are you!”

Wash snorts before he can stop himself. “That’s…nice of you to say, Caboose, but I’m really not.”

“Of course you are! You do all the things that good friends do! You help me with my armor and you help Tucker not be afraid of sharp things and you help Carolina dye her hair and that one time I was sick you stayed by my bed for two days and you always let Grif pick his protein bar first because he is the pickiest and will not eat the vanilla flavored ones and all of the cadets say you helped them watch _The Grey Skeleton_ and those are all things that good friends do!”

Wash stares at him for several seconds before he’s able to find his words. “Well…well…”

Caboose clasps his hand solemnly between his own. “Wash, you are a _very_ good friend. You are one of my _best_ friends. I tell everyone that. All the time.”

“Thanks, Caboose,” Wash stutters, and he pats Caboose’s shoulder awkwardly with his free hand. “Then…since you and I are…are good friends, we should lead by example. Help them work through this obstacle course together.”

“Okay!” Caboose gestures towards the course. “That was very fun, Wash. I think they will all enjoy it.”

Wash somehow doubts that. “Do you want to try to run it, together?”

It _is_ fun, running the course with Caboose. Caboose slows down with Wash next to him, and a few obstacles in, Wash sees him start to understand the teamwork that most require to get through the course. He lets Wash help him at moments where Wash is certain he doesn’t need it, and always seems to offer a hand to Wash at just the right moment. Caboose’s good mood is infectious, and by the time they finish the course, Wash has laughed more than he has in weeks. It’s _this_ , right here, that Wash is hoping will help snap the armies into shape: Caboose’s strength and laughter, and that light that always seems to reach into even the darkest of places.

The soldiers from both armies arrive in little groups and station themselves at opposite ends of the room, glaring mistrustfully at each other. Wash stands in the middle, arms folded, watching as Caboose bounds from group to group, completely oblivious to the tension seeping into the room. The soldiers brighten as Caboose approaches them, but fall back into sulking as he flits to the next group. Wash can’t imagine what the atmosphere would bel like if Caboose wasn’t here at all.

“Attention!” Wash calls, once they’ve all filed in, and they snap to. He briefly considers lecturing them on the importance of behaving, particularly when they have such an important mission coming up, but decides that the best thing to do would be to act like this is just another normal training session. “As you can see here, I’ve constructed an elaborate obstacle course designed to test your strength, reflexes, and teamwork. You will need a partner to complete this exercise, and…yes, Ali?”

“Will this exercise be timed, sir?”

“It will not be timed. The important part is—”

“Do we get to pick our partners?” Martinez interrupts, and all the Feds instantly start puffing themselves up.

“Interrupting a commanding officer,” one of them mutters, just loud enough for her voice to carry. “No respect at _all_ —”

“Um, you know we can _hear_ you, right?” Britton says loudly.

“Yes, you can pick your own partners,” Wash says, choosing to ignore the mutinous muttering. “But—”

He sighs as the cadets all instantly start inching towards each other. “But you have to pick someone from the opposite side of the room.”

Opposite side of the _room_. Not opposite _army_. Wash takes a moment to mentally pat himself on the back for this subtle distinction, but his moment of happy congratulation quickly ends as half the cadets start whining.

“Quiet!” he snaps, and they fall into a sulky silence. “Alright, listen up. You are going to work together whether you like it or _not._ I don’t care if we have to stay here all night. _No one_ leaves until every single person has completed this course, successfully, _with_ a partner. Is that understood?”

“Sir, yes, sir,” comes the response. Wash chooses to ignore the low and furious tone.

“I’m sure you are all aware of the mission we have coming up. Some of you will be assigned to go on that mission. It should go without saying that only the soldiers who have proven that they take all parts of the training seriously— _including teamwork_ —will be assigned to any missions of importance. Is that understood?”

“Sir, yes, sir…”

“Good. Now, partner up.”

The two groups start shuffling reluctantly towards each other. It takes some cajoling and maneuvering from Wash, but after the third group he sends to run laps along the perimeter of the room for lack of cooperation, they lose the stubbornness. Wash sets pairs to run the obstacle course at staggered intervals, and while there is no immediate violence, there is plenty of bickering going on throughout the room.

Wash throws a half-glance at Caboose, who, to Wash’s dismay, has stopped paying attention and is now playing a game on his datapad. “Caboose.”

“Hmmmm?” Caboose says.

Wash closes his eyes briefly. “Caboose, I need you to help me keep an eye on everyone.”

“Oh,” says Caboose, his voice carrying without intent. “Oh, okay. _See_ , it’s just that, everyone is being very mean to each other, and it’s making me sad, and I don’t like to be sad, _soooo_.”

Wash eyes the room in interest as those standing nearby shift guiltily. “I know, buddy,” he mutters, low enough for only Caboose to hear. “Just…just try to get through to them?”

Caboose sighs loudly before snapping his datapad back into its slot on his armor. “Okay, but only because you asked nicely, Wash.”

Caboose bounds off to the nearest pair of cadets, which happen to be Britton and her Federalist partner, Sabine. “…don’t know why you have to be such a mean snooty _bitch,_ ” Britton is saying viciously. “I’m _telling_ you, if you boost me up and _then_ take my hand—”

Sabine snorts. “As if a little _twig_ like you is going to be able to haul me over that wall.”

Britton swells, but before she can get another word in, Caboose has sandwiched his way between the two soldiers and has thrown an arm around them both. “Oh! Oh, Sabine! Did you see the episode of Anatomy Grey last night? Because I think that the new nurse is the great great great great great great granddaughter of—”

“Wait,” Britton interrupts, her visor snapping towards Sabine. “ _You_ watch Grey’s Anatomy? _Really?_ ”

“So what if I do?” Sabine asks suspiciously, then startles as Britton grasps her hand, her entire demeanor changing.

“Oh! _Oh!_ What do you think of the new doctor?”

“ _I_ think he is not quite who he appears to be,” Caboose says wisely.

Sabine hesitates, glancing between Caboose and Britton. “Well…well okay, so this is my _theory_ …”

Wash shakes his head as the two of them chatter their way through the obstacle course, Caboose mysteriously vanishing. He turns his eyes to the rest of the room, most of whom aren’t finding common ground quite so easily. He hastens to break up a scuffle between Prajapati and one of the Feds, and ends up having to send them off for another five laps before they can return to training. It takes nearly twenty minutes to get the two of them to complete a single obstacle successfully, and by the time he backs away, exhausted but pleased, it’s to find that Caboose has encouraged cooperation between half a dozen pairs of soldiers in the time it took Wash to wrangle one.

The afternoon drags on and on, but miraculously, by the end of it, everyone has completed the obstacle course and is reasonably intact. “Well done,” he says, ignoring the incredulous stares. “Same time tomorrow, at the firing range. Dismissed.”

Caboose moves to bound off after them, and Caboose snags his arm. “Wait, Caboose…” he clears his throat. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Agent Washington!” Caboose says, and after a bone-crushing hug, he grabs Wash’s wrist and starts tugging him out the door. “Let’s go eat lunch.”

Wash follows without much resistance. They have, after all, earned it.

* * *

The task of getting the two armies to work together is by no means over. Wash knows that they have taken a very small step on what will be a long, tiresome, and likely disheartening journey.

It is still a step. They took a step. _Wash_ took a step, and thinking back on the training session, he isn’t sure he could’ve done it alone. Caboose had been a godsend—had come when Wash asked, and had taken that step right by his side.

It had felt good, Wash notes with surprise. _Good_ , to move forward with someone you trust standing next to him. To ask for their help, and have them grant it, without a second thought. To not go it alone.

Maybe— _maybe_ —he doesn’t have to go everything alone.

* * *

Wash fidgets outside of Dr. Grey’s office door that evening. He’s already half-regretting his decision to come talk to her, but after Tucker had got him all flustered and wound up in _another_ training session today, he had jerked off _again_ this afternoon. Tucker hadn’t even really done anything except smile and let his touches linger a few seconds too long, but Wash was finding it increasingly difficult to be around him sans armor ever since Tucker had given him that massage in the meeting room. Tucker’s hands on his back and in his hair had felt good, _so good_ , and all Wash wants is _more_.

There is still a part of him that says he shouldn’t want more. Tucker is _still_ too good for him, and Wash is _still_ a mess—but he _had_ fallen asleep, in a foreign environment, right there under Tucker’s touch, and he hadn’t woken up violently.

It’s not everything, but it’s certainly not nothing.

But he _could_ slip up, at any time. Wash knows this. He may not have woken up and hurt Tucker, but he _could_. That’s a serious issue in and of itself without even taking into account the fact that Wash _hasn’t had sex_ in at _least_ five years. Not only would he probably make a complete fool out of himself, but Wash has no idea what’s going on with his body. He’s gotten hard several times in the past few days, after _years_ of thinking his sex drive completely gone, and while it is a welcome change, he can’t help but feel seriously unnerved.

If he’s going to do this—if he’s even _thinking_ about doing this—then he needs to get some answers.

Wash spends several more minutes raising his hand to knock, then letting it fall, trying to find some nerve. In what he will later be sure is a sudden burst of insanity, he raps twice on Dr. Grey’s door, slams it open and blurts, “I’ve jerked off three times in the past five days.”

He doesn’t understand, so he blinks. Once.

Twice.

His brain goes offline, because that’s _definitely_ Dr. Grey wearing something red and lacy, and that’s _definitely_ Sarge wearing nothing but a lab coat and surgical goggles, and Wash is _definitely_ going to have nightmares about this for the rest of his life, particularly when Sarge glances him up at him from his position between Dr. Grey’s legs and says, “That’s a hell of a way to ask someone for a threesome, Agent Washington.”

Wash gapes for an entirely inappropriate amount of time, because his brain and his voice and his feet aren't responding. He finally wrenches one foot off the ground and does an about-face, stumbling out of the door. “Oh don’t leave, we weren’t saying _no!_ ” Dr. Grey calls after him, and Wash thinks if his face gets any hotter he might actually keel over and die.

He just might welcome it.

He continues marching robotically through the halls until he finds a quiet bench where he can sit down and stare at a wall and desperately try to wipe those images from his mind. It dawns on him, in horrific clarity, that with his memory in pretty good working order these days, he will now have to live with the knowledge of what Sarge looks like naked, and wonder where the hell Dr. Grey got lingerie in a war zone.

Twenty minutes later, he barely registers footsteps making their way down the hall. To his horror, Dr. Grey is sitting down on the bench next to him. “Oh _god_ ,” Wash says. “No. _No_. Just go..finish, what you were doing. Leave me here to die.”

“I did finish,” Dr. Grey says primly, clasping her hands atop her crossed legs. “Several times, actually. The Colonel is _quite_ gifted with his tongue.”

“Oh my god,” Wash says, and moves to stand. “Okay, I’m just gonna—”

Dr. Grey latches onto his arm and yanks him back down hard. “Oh _no_ you don’t! You sit your perky little butt _right_ back down here, and you tell me what was so important that you barged into my office at this hour without knocking.”

“I _did_ knock,” Wash moans. “I did! I’m sorry, I should’ve—that was— _god_ —”

Dr. Grey waves a hand. “Oh, it’s fine. I suppose you _did_ announce your arrival, and I _could’ve_ locked the door, but…well. The Colonel and I _do_ both enjoy a little danger!”

“Please stop calling him ‘the Colonel.’ _Please_.”

“Oh, stop. Now.” Dr. Grey straightens and beams at him. “Go on and tell me _all_ about your masturbatory issues. I assume you came to me because you seek medical advice?”

Wash casts a despairing glance up at the ceiling before sighing, resigned to his fate. “Well…yes. I’ve…lately, I’ve felt…”

“Sexually aroused?” Dr. Grey supplies, and Wash nods. “Judging by that sorrowful look at your face, I take it that this is a problem.”

“It’s not a _problem_ ,” Wash says slowly. “It’s just been a long time since I’ve felt…that way.”

“Well, you _have_ had a stressful few months—”

“ _Years._ I’m talking years. Since Project Freelancer.”

Dr. Grey is silent for a few moments. “And the tipping point was the experience with your artificial intelligence unit, I take it?”

“Yeah,” Wash says, then frowns. “How did you…”

She taps gently on the side of his skull. “I performed brain surgery on you, silly. That is why you came to _me_ with this, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I just…I didn’t know how much you could _tell_ , just from looking.”

“Enough,” she says, her voice losing a bit of its brightness. “Those shiny little wires told me enough.”

“I just…” Wash says, staring down at his hands. “I thought there was brain damage.”

“There is,” she says quietly, and he jerks his head up to look at her. “There is quite a significant amount of brain damage, particularly to your memory centers. But you already know that, don’t you?”

He laughs bitterly. “Yeah. I know that.”

Dr. Grey tilts her head at him. “Why do you think this affected your ability to perform sexually?”

“Because I haven’t been sexually active since before that…incident.” He frowns when she continues to look confused. “I’m not just talking about sex with someone _else_. I couldn’t even get...”

“An erection?”

“Yes. Not until recently.”

“And you thought this was a result of brain damage caused by you A.I.?”

“It’s the only explanation, isn’t it?”

Dr. Grey is silent for a while, her face thoughtful. “These erections. What caused them?”

Wash can feel his face turning bright red, and after several aborted attempts, he finds himself unable to answer.

For some reason, his discomfort only adds to Dr. Grey’s confidence. “It’s a specific person, isn’t it? That you feel a sexual attraction to?”

“Well… _yes_ ,” Wash says, choosing to ignore the knowing look on her face.

“Hmmm.” Dr. Grey taps a finger against her chin. “This person. How does he make you feel?”

Wash ignores the pronoun, as well. “I…I don’t know, a lot of things.”

“Does he make you feel safe?”

Wash pauses. Thinks of Tucker holding his helmet, running a hand through his hair, pressing their backs together in a firefight. “Yes,” he says. Surprised. “Yes. He does.”

Dr. Grey smiles at him slightly. “Wash, I don’t think there was any physical damage to your sex drive.”

“You don’t?”

“No. I think that, for _you_ , sexual intimacy is very much wrapped up in feelings of safety and trust.” Her smile turns sad. “And I think it’s been a very, _very_ long time since you’ve truly felt safe.”

Wash can’t look at her. There’s something tightening in his chest, curling in on itself. “It doesn’t matter,” he says stiffly. “It doesn’t _matter_ how I feel about it. I can’t…it’s too dangerous for me to be with someone.”

“Why?”

He throws up his hands, agitated. “Why does everyone keep _saying_ that?”

Dr. Grey huffs. “Now, you just calm right back down. Why does everyone keep saying what?”

“Everyone keeps acting like…like it doesn’t _matter_ that I have violent nightmares! Like it’s no big deal! Like I didn’t…didn’t almost _kill_ Tucker when we first met because he tried to wake me up! I may be… _better_ , I guess. I don’t know, but I’m still…I’m still a mess. I could seriously hurt him.”

“Wash—”

“I wouldn’t survive that,” he says hollowly. “I would _never_ forgive myself if I hurt him. In _any_ way. Tucker deserves someone better, someone who…who he doesn’t have to worry about waking up swinging! Someone who actually knows how to make him feel good!” he buries his face in his hands and groans. “I don’t even know what I’m _doing_ , anymore!”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Dr. Grey says firmly, and tugs his hands away from his face. “Goodness me, you _are_ melodramatic, aren’t you?”

“It’s not funny,” he growls, and she rolls her eyes.

“Oh, stop. Now, you listen here. No one is denying the fact that there are certain roadblocks to you becoming intimate with someone, but you are remarkably aware of them. You are aware of your nightmares, and the issues you have with trust, and vulnerability.”

“So, what? You’re saying I should just give it a try?”

Dr. Grey tugs his hand into her lap and gives it a little pat before curling her fingers around his. “That’s _exactly_ what I’m saying, silly.”

He shakes his head a little. “It can’t be that easy.”

She huffs. “Well, of _course_ not, because you complicate everything! You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, but…if you _want_ this…if you want _Tucker_ …then I think you should just try.”

“I don’t know how to do this,” he mutters, and she squeezes his hand before standing.

“None of us do, silly. That’s why we need someone. To figure it out together.”

She starts to walk down the hallway, but pauses before she gets too far. “Come see me anytime, Wash. Doctor to patient, or friend to friend.”

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. And…thanks, Dr. Grey.”

“Emily.” She winks at him. “People who have seen me naked get to call me Emily.”

He groans up at the ceiling, but feels a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth nonetheless. “Thank you, Emily.”

“You’re quite welcome, Wash.”

And she’s gone, leaving Wash to sit on the bench for a little longer to turn over her words, and of Tucker, and of the soft warm thing fluttering inside his chest that just might be hope.

* * *

Wash doesn’t do anything with Dr. Grey’s words except hold them, but he feels calmer after their conversation. It clears his head a little, allowing him to focus on the upcoming mission. Now that he isn’t quite as stressed out over his personal issues, he is free to stress out over the mission. The more he does, the worse he feels about it, until one night he is searching the base for Carolina.

He finds her in one of the smaller meeting rooms, armored up and pouring over her datapad.

“I think your intel is wrong,” he says, before he can second guess himself.

Carolina pauses. “Excuse me?”

Wash forces himself not to fidget in the doorway. “The numbers from your reconnaissance run. They don’t make any sense.” When Carolina continues to say nothing, Wash plows into the room and drops his own datapad on the table in front of her. “Look. This warehouse is _huge_. There has to be more than a couple dozen boxes of ammo in the main storage room—there’s either way more, or something else is going on there.”

“You think?” Epsilon asks, popping up over Carolina’s shoulder. Wash pointedly ignores him.

“We need to rethink this whole thing. We need more troops, divided up into smaller groups. We need Pelicans, _lots_ of them, circling or posted up nearby, in case there _is_ a lot of ammo. We need…look, I made up this chart here, see?”

Carolina tugs Wash’s datapad towards her and observes it with a critical eye before glancing back up at him. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

“Several days’ worth, I suppose.”

“Several days, or several nights?” Epsilon mutters. Wash glares at him.

Carolina sighs. “Wash, why didn’t you come to me when this first crossed your mind?”

Wash falters at that. “I…I don’t know, boss.”

“Because if you had, I would’ve told you that I agree.”

“You—what?”

Carolina pushes her own datapad towards him, and Wash can see that her own mission dossier is almost identical to the one he’s marked up. “I’ve gone back to the warehouse. Several times now. The numbers didn’t sit right with me, either. It looks like Charon put some sort of shield up around the building, something to scramble the numbers. Epsilon and I took it down and, well…let’s just say there’s way more than a few dozen boxes of ammunition.”

“So you’re saying…”

“I’m saying that I think we found their main stockpile.” She stands, hand clenching into fists. “And we are going to go and get it.”

Relief floods its way through Wash’s veins. Of course Carolina saw it. Of course Carolina fixed it. Suddenly he feels stupid for doubting her in the first place. “Sorry, boss. I should’ve known you’d catch this.”

“Wash…” Carolina throws a half glance towards Epsilon, one that Wash recognizes as the two of them conferring inside her head. With a grumble, Epsilon vanishes. “Wash, you know this isn’t Freelancer, right?”

Wash frowns. “Of course I know that.”

“Good. Because it’s not.” Carolina stands suddenly, moving across the room to stare out the window. “I know I wasn’t…the best leader, back then.”

“You were a great leader—”

“I wasn’t,” she says sharply. “Not when it mattered. I was stubborn, and competitive, and I didn’t always like to listen.”

Wash hesitates before coming to stand next to her at the window. “You also saved all of our lives many times over, Carolina.”

“Not when it mattered.” She lets out a bitter sigh before turning to face him. “I want you to feel like you can come to me with stuff like this, Wash. I’m _not_ your leader anymore. It’s just us now. We have to work together. It’s the _only_ thing that will keep us from missing stuff and…and losing another team.”

He forgets sometimes. Forgets that he isn’t the only person the Reds and Blues have stitched back together piece by piece. It had annoyed him, when Carolina and Epsilon had left at the crash site, but he was unsurprised to see her again, standing in front of them and unable to hide the beaming smile in her voice: _“I never thought I’d be so glad to see you idiots again.”_ Wash thinks of the way he’d woken up to see her bending over him after he’d been beaten bloody from his fight with Locus. She had come back for him; had brought him straight to Tucker and the rest of his men, had caught him before he passed out on the floor of the Pelican.

She had come back for him.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Wash says suddenly, because he can’t quite say _I forgive you_. Not because it isn’t true—he thinks it is, these days—but because he can’t talk about it yet, about Freelancer, about the burning infirmary, about his head cracked open for the world to see. He doesn’t think she can, either.

“Me too, Wash.” She takes a breath, and looks back at their datapads on the table. “Now, let’s get to work. We have a mission to plan.”

* * *

It takes the two of them the better part of a day to structure the mission to their satisfaction, decide who would be on which squad, recruit select squad, and assemble the whole lot of them for a mission debriefing.  In the end, Wash ends up with Tucker, Sarge, Caboose, Fitz, Britton, and Andersmith on his team. None of his squad will actually retrieving the ammunition: they are to act as guards for the many teams that will be hauling the boxes onto the Pelicans. Caboose, Fitz, Britton, and Andersmith will remain with the Pelican, to guard it, help with the loading, and, if need be, ready to take off with them at a moment’s notice. Wash will be patrolling the actual warehouse with Tucker and Sarge. Carolina will lead a similar squad on the south end of the warehouse, and there will be several more teams working on the retrieval.

Wash is met with mixed reactions when he finds his team to tell them of their mission directives. Fitz and Andersmith both wring his hand solemnly. Britton bursts into tears, overwhelmed, and promising that she won’t let him down.

“I hear you’re a hell of a pilot,” Wash tells her awkwardly, as she sniffles away in front of him. He’d found out only recently that Britton had been the one piloting the Pelican that had come for him and the Reds and Blues at the tower. He remembers dimly that the Pelican had landed as smoothly and closely as possible to where Tucker lay, and zoomed away the second they were all inside. “I’m counting on you to get us out of there fast if we need it.”

“Yes, sir!” Britton says again, and takes off, presumably to inform all of her friends of her upcoming mission.

Caboose takes the news as he does all news: cheerfully, with hugs given to everyone in the nearby vicinity. Sarge spends a good ten minutes lamenting over the fact that he will be the only member of Red Team on this squad, but ultimately decides that, _“One Red is better than none, can’t have all these damn dirty Blues screwing up a mission of such vital importance.”_

When he finds Tucker lifting weights and tells him the mission assignments, Tucker just nods as if it were a given. When Wash asks, Tucker rolls his eyes. “Well, of _course_ we’re gonna be on the same squad. They’d have to be idiots not to pair us up.”

Wash looks at him suspiciously. “Why’s that?”

“Uh, because we make a fucking _awesome_ team?” Tucker lifts an eyebrow suggestively. “In more ways than one, I’ll bet.”

Wash huffs, but doesn’t hide his smile. “Well. We’ll see about _that_.”

Tucker pauses in the act of unclamping a barbell to stare at Wash. “Wait, we _will?_ ”

Wash shrugs, feeling a little silly, but he plows onward. “Maybe. I guess it depends on how… _convincing_ you can be.”

Tucker throws the clamp aside and all but leaps into Wash’s personal space, tripping spectacularly over the barbell as he does. This time, his stumbling fall is genuine, and when Wash catches him, they’re both laughing. “ _Smooth,_ ” Wash says, and lets his hands rest carefully on Tucker’s hips as Tucker makes a production out of steadying himself.

Tucker grins, and snakes his arms around Wash’s neck. Wash’s breath catches in his throat as Tucker lines them up, thighs to shoulders, and presses his hips forward ever so slightly. “Oh-ho, Wash, I can be _very_ convincing.” He buries his head into the crook of Wash’s neck, dragging his lips up slowly so that they’re flush against Wash’s ear. “They _do_ call me the doctor of love.”

Wash makes a noise that is _most definitely not a whimper_ as he feels Tucker’s breath on his neck, before toying with the edge of Tucker’s t-shirt. He runs his fingertips along the sliver of bare skin there before pressing his palms to the small of Tucker’s back. Wash grins, delighted at the resulting gasp, and runs his hands up and down Tucker’s back a few times before pulling away reluctantly. Tucker’s hands trail along his arms as he does, as if he wants to keep touching Wash’s skin for as long as possible.

“Let’s…” Wash clears his throat, and Tucker smirks at the strangled note in his voice. “Let’s…focus on this mission. Then...”

“Then?” Tucker prompts with a wink.

“Then we can…see,” Wash says awkwardly. “We’ll just…we’ll just see.”

“Whatever you want, Wash,” Tucker says, as Wash shuffles out of the room. “And I do mean _whatever._ ”

* * *

The morning of the mission dawns far too soon, and the energy that descends on the Pelican bay is simultaneously anxious and giddy. Carolina’s goes over their mission directives again, and in a reasonably organized fashion, they all make their way onto their respective Pelicans and take off.

“So!” says Sarge, the moment they’re all airborne. “What do you all say we play a game?” He whips a deck of cards seemingly out of nowhere.

“Ooooooh, I wanna play!” Britton calls from the front of the Pelican.

“No, wait,” Wash protests, as Caboose nearly knocks him over in his haste to draw cards from Sarge’s hand. “We should go over the plan again—”

“Dude, we’ve gone over the plan a thousand times,” Tucker says with a yawn. “Britton flies, Caboose, Andersmith and the Fitz haul the boxes onboard, and the three of us do like, recon and shit. Badass. Let’s do it. Now will you relax and play some cards with us?”

Wash does _not_ , in fact, play cards, but he doesn’t stop the rest of them from playing. Caboose plays Britton’s hand as well as his own, and Wash has to admit that the game does help take away some of the tension. Wash spends a fair amount of the Pelican ride glancing suspiciously at Sarge—he still hasn’t said anything about Wash barging in on him and Dr. Grey, and Wash has a sinking feeling that he’s waiting for the perfect moment.

Thankfully, that moment is not now. When the Pelican finally lands, Wash exits with a final nod to Tucker and Sarge. “Wait for my signal.”

“We will, Wash, stop worrying,” Tucker says, exasperated, and Wash heads around the western side of the warehouse. A quick check-in with Carolina confirms that she’s on the eastern side as planned.

He’s seen the warehouse several times in pictures now, but he’s still taken aback at how big the building is. Still, it hardly takes any time at all for the two of them to take out the handful of guards staggered around the entrance, and Wash waits anxiously for Epsilon to disarm the alarm set around the perimeter.

“Alright, done. I’m looping the security footage.”

“How long can you give us?” Wash asks, glancing around. No reinforcements that he can see.

“ _Please._ I can do this shit forever. You just worry about the ammo.”

Wash rolls his eyes, but focuses on entering the structure. The ammo is _everywhere_ , boxes and boxes of it, lined up neatly and apparently theirs for the taking. “Boss, are you seeing this?”

“Looks like we hit the jackpot,” she murmurs, delighted. “Let’s check the perimeter, and I’ll report in to Kimball.”

They triple check the room before calling the others in, one by one. Wash nods to Tucker and Sarge as the skulk over to him. “Alright. Sarge, you take the eastern side. Tucker, you monitor the south, and I’ll monitor the northwest.”

Within thirty minutes, they’ve sent five Pelicans back to the base loaded with ammunition. They’ve checked every single box for traps or bombs, but everything is clean. It’s a miracle. It must be too good to be true.

“Relax,” Tucker sighs over the radio when Wash voices this concern. “Is it really so hard to believe that these fuckers have underestimated us again?”

“Well…” Wash hesitates. “Let’s just wrap this up and get out of here as soon as possible, alright?”

He continues his patrol of the warehouse, rifle up and at the ready. He listens to the sounds of the various teams whooping and cheering over the radio as their Pelicans take off, and grins in spite of himself. They deserved this. They deserved a bit of hope. They deserved something _good_ —

Wash rounds the corner to make his way down a corridor he had previously only glanced down, and the utter silence that follows screams its warning.

It had been silent before, but were still underlying sounds in the background: the hum of the temperature control modulators, the sigh of the overhead fans. When Wash turns the corner, in the moment between one footfall and the next, there is a resounding hush that sets the hair on the back of his neck standing up. Wash tries wrench his foot backwards, but it’s too late to stop his descent from triggering a trap, and his foot hits the floor.

It doesn’t stay there for long. The world explodes, _smokefirelightNOISE_ , and Wash curls in on himself as the explosion blasts him nearly six feet in the air. His back hits the wall hard, head snapping back against the stone directly above his implantation site, and the pain is so intense that it turns his vision black and his body boneless.

When he comes to, he’s lying flat on his back, coughing up at the ceiling. The back of his head feels wet and sticky inside of his helmet, and his HUD is telling him that he’s hurt, warning of possible concussion or stress fracture or—

 _Go_. He needs to _go_. Wash forces feeling back into his limbs and tries to roll over to a stand, but his legs aren’t listening. For several heart-stopping seconds, he’s sure that he’s been paralyzed. It takes him far longer than it should to actually glance down his body and see the pile of rubble lying across his legs—bits of plaster and chunks of stone and, most worryingly, a large section of one of the many pillars holding the room up. Wash pushes ineffectually at the pillar, and tries to worm his body out from under it, but it’s too heavy. He needs help.

“Tuck-er,” he slurs, and spends a few seconds blinking dazedly at the inside of his helmet before he realizes that his radio is off. He paws at the sides of his helmet until he finds the dial that opens up his radio, spins it until he gets to his squad’s frequency, and—

Static. Nothing but static.

A cold prickle of fear slides down the back of his neck. _They’re fine_ , he tells himself. _They’re fine, you’re all fine, everything’s going to be fine_. He flips through several channels, trying to find a new frequency, but all he hears is static, static, _static._ The smoke rising up to the ceiling grows thicker and thicker as Wash struggles with his radio; there's another beat of yawning silence and then-

And then the building's alarms start to howl, and time cracks open inside his head.

Adrenaline pulses through his body and Wash jolts, struggling desperately against the rubble pinning his legs, but to no avail. He falls back, gasping, pressing his hands to the side of his helmet and—

_There must be something wrong with his auditory filters; there’s no way the alarms could possibly be this loud. They blare on and on, sliding inside his skull, filling the furrows and cracks where Epsilon was ripped out with their sound. “Epsilon,” he says, and his voice sounds sick and delirious to his own ears. “Epsilon, I’m…”_

Wash shoves the memory down, _hard_ , hands pressing tight to the side of his helmet. “Chorus,” he croaks, because it helps to say it out loud, even though he can’t hear his own voice over the scream of the alarms. “You’re on Chorus. S’okay. Name is Agent Washington and you’re on _Chorus_.”

He squeezes his eyes shut tight against the flashing red lights and the smoke. He fumbles with the radio, ignores the _increasingly frantic warnings from his HUD and opens their private Freelancer channel again, saying the first thing that comes to mind. “Maine,” he slurs. “Maine. I’m all fucked up. I need you to come get me.” Christ, he sounds bad, he doesn’t know what he’s saying, and besides, Maine isn’t coming for him, can’t come for him, because he isn’t there any more, he isn’t—_

He isn’t on the MOI. He’s on _Chorus_. Wash latches onto this desperate thought, forces his eyes back open to stare at the warehouse ceiling—not the infirmary, with its twisted metal bedframes and flames licking the walls. _Maine isn’t here,_ he tells himself firmly _. You have a new team now. You need to call them. You need—_

“Tucker,” he says again, and fumbles with the frequencies until he lands on the Blue Team channel, the one they’ve used ever since— “Rockslide,” he says, and opens the channel. “Tucker. C’boose. M’on the northwest side of the warehouse an’…an’ I think my head is broken and…”

It _is_ , it is broken, he can feel the blood on the back of his neck and whenever he moves, the room swims sickeningly. There is no answer on any radio frequency that he tries, no answer on his in-text reader. They’ve fallen; the ship has fallen from the sky and there is no answering voice on the radio— _he tries to call their names but can’t, they won’t come, his head is full of bloodied, broken bits of glass, and still the alarms scream, and scream, and scream, and scream, and scream, and—_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IN OTHER NEWS:
> 
> -hugs to everyone I got to meet at RTX! you were all so lovely. I had a wonderful time and am absolutely planning to go next year!  
> -MORE FANART (//flails): [Wash & Tucker in the infirmary](http://cleverest-url.tumblr.com/post/146731053985/tucker-snorts-again-and-wash-pretends-he-doesnt) (chapter 2) by [cleverest-url](http://cleverest-url.tumblr.com/). THANK YOU FRIEND!  
> -I apologize that I have yet to go through and respond to all of your lovely comments on the last chapter! I have not forgotten you. <3 It's been a crazy week with RTX, but I'm back on track now (I say, as I post this fic with an hour to spare)
> 
> THANKS FOR READING GUYS


	11. Chapter 11

“God _dammit!_ ” Tucker slams a hand against the nearest wall and resists the urge to throw his useless helmet across the warehouse. “Fucking _fuck!_ ”

“Captain Tucker, _use your words,_ ” Carolina says sharply. “What’s the situation?”

“Wash isn’t answering me—he’s not answering _anyone._ I think his radio’s busted. _Fuck!_ ”

“Okay,” Carolina says. Tucker kind of wants to strangle her for the ridiculously calm note in her voice because _how she can be calm in a time like this?!_ — “Okay, I’m going to go find him and—”

“ _Fuck_ that,” Tucker says. He’s already sprinting towards the spiraling smoke, the alarms wailing overhead. “I know exactly where he is. Right in the middle of that _gigantic fucking explosion_.”

“Tucker—”

“No, shut up. I’m going. You’re all the way on the other side of the building. I’m closer, and I’m _going_.”

“Fine,” Carolina says after a beat of silence. “Tucker, be careful—there could be more traps—”

“Yeah, and _speaking_ of that…” Tucker leaps over fallen debris. “Weren’t you and Church supposed to be disarming the traps when you scouted the place out?”

“Hey, we _did!_ ” Epsilon protests. Tucker wants to strangle him as well. “And I disarmed a _fuckton_ of them, so—”

“Not the ones that counted though, _did_ you?”

“ _Tucker_ —”

“I’m almost there,” Tucker says tightly. “I’ll radio you when I’ve got him.”

He switches off his radio, shoving down the dull pulse of guilt. All that matters now is finding Wash. Tucker opens up his squad’s frequency once more. “Anyone hear from him yet?”

His heart sinks as a chorus of _no’s_ echo back at him. “Wash? You there? I’m coming to get you, dude.”

There’s no answer from Wash, and after a few seconds, all of his teammates let out their breath in a disappointed whoosh. “Is Agent Washington going to be okay?” Britton asks, voice a thready whisper. “That explosion was _sooo_ big…”

“He’s gonna be fine,” Tucker says firmly, concentrating hard on her words. He cranks up the radio volume in his helmet and tries his best to drown out the alarms. “You just worry about having that plane ready to go, okay?”

“It’ll be ready,” Britton says, stronger, and Tucker resumes his frantic scrolling through various frequencies.

There’s no answer from Wash on _any_ of them: not Blue Team’s channel, not their shared channel with the Reds, _nothing._ He can’t even hear Wash breathing, which can only mean that his radio’s down.

That’s the _only_ thing it can mean.

He slows down the closer he gets to the smoke, keeping an eye out for more traps, for enemy soldier, for movement, for Wash.

Clear.

Clear.

_Clear._

Tucker inches slowly through the rows, and it’s all clear, and that word is rattling around in his head, loud and silent at the same time and he steps again, clears, steps, and almost misses—

Movement. There’s movement. It’s slow and sluggish, but it’s _Wash_ , and he’s _moving_ , hands pawing at his helmet. Tucker’s heart leaps straight into his throat, and he plunges forward— _fuck clearing the room_ —skidding to a halt and dropping to his knees next to Wash. “Wash! Holy _shit_ dude, are you okay?”

Wash is the exact opposite of okay. There’s no visible blood or signs of broken bones, but there’s a gigantic pillar across his legs that Tucker has a sinking feeling he won’t be able to lift on his own. What’s worse, Wash is clearly panicking, chest heaving with uneven gasps that Tucker can’t hear over the scream of the alarms.

The moment Tucker crouches down next to him, Wash stops struggling with his helmet to grasp desperately at Tucker’s arm. “C’rlina… _Lina_ , you’re here.”

Tucker freezes, hands faltering in their frantic progress to check Wash’s body for injury. Wash’s voice is muddled and sluggish and, what’s worse, there’s a complete lack of recognition in his tone that sends a cold wave of fear through Tucker’s body. Shock. He has to be in shock; Tucker can feel how badly Wash is shaking even through both of their armor. “Wash, hey, it’s me. It’s _Tucker_.”

“Carol-ina,” Wash gasps again, his hands tight and desperate against Tucker’s forearm. “You came _back_.”

Tucker swallows down his own panic and takes a closer look at Wash’s helmet. There’s something smoking out of the side—his busted radio, Tucker would bet—and judging from his disorientation, Tucker is certain he hit his head. He hesitates, free hand hovering over the seals on Wash’s helmet, but the alarms are blaring at an ungodly volume.

He fiddles with the external auditory filters on Wash’s helmet instead, but they seem to be fucked up as well. Tucker muffles the sound of the alarms as best he can, then opens a direct line to Carolina on his own radio. “Carolina, I’ve got him. Can’t you guys turn these goddamn alarms _off?_ ”

“I’m _trying!_ ” Epsilon huffs. “What happened? Is he okay?”

“No, he’s _not fucking okay!_ ”

“Tucker, what’s wrong?” Carolina interrupts.

“He—” Tucker glances at Wash, who has let go of his arm and has resumed trying to wrench off his helmet. “Wash, _no_ , you gotta leave that on, it’s way too fucking loud in here.”

“Tucker, I’m coming to you,” Carolina says.

“ _No!_ ” Tucker tugs Wash’s hands away from his helmet. “Give me a second to figure this out! There’s probably a billion reinforcements on their way, and you’re our best chance against them! You have to stay where you are!”

 _You’ll just confuse him_.

Tucker glances uneasily at Wash. _It’s just the armor color that’s throwing him off,_ he tells himself. _Anyone_ would be disoriented after an explosion like that. “Look, just—just _perimeter_ and shit, okay? I’ve got this.”

“Fine,” Carolina grits out after a beat. “But I want an update as _soon_ as you have one.”

Tucker snaps off his radio and turns his attention back to Wash, who is clutching at Tucker’s hands. “Think the ship crashed,” he slurs, “C’rlina, I think the ship crashed and I—I think my head’s broken—”

“Okay.” Tucker detangles his hands from Wash’s and pops the seals on his own helmet, tugging it off his head and wincing as the alarms hit. “Wash, look. It’s _me._ Tucker. It’s _Tucker_.”

Wash falters for a moment and Tucker holds his gaze, forcing himself to wait it out until— “Tucker?” Wash says hesitantly, and Tucker lets out a shaky breath.

“Yeah, dude.” Tucker hastens to reseal his helmet, muffling the alarms once more. “Where are you hurt?”

“I can’t move,” Wash says, his voice coming out high and strangled. “Tuck’r, I can’t _move_ —”

“I know, it’s okay, I’m gonna get you out of here…” Tucker glances anxiously towards the pillar, a horrific thought suddenly occurring to him. “Wash, can you feel your legs?”

“I…” Wash moves his legs experimentally. “Yes.”

Thank fucking _Christ_. “Okay. _Okay._ Good, that’s good. We just have to move this, and—”

The alarms blessedly cut off, and Tucker wilts in relief. “Okay, Wash. I’m gonna take off your helmet, okay?”

“’Kay,” Wash says. “Think it’s broken. M’head.”

“Your head’s not broken,” Tucker says firmly, easing Wash’s helmet off. There’s blood, alright, but not as much as Tucker was expecting. He’s far more concerned about the wide, dazed look in Wash’s eyes. “Wash. Hey. Follow my finger.”

Tucker moves his finger around a bit, feeling ridiculous—he isn’t entirely sure what he’s supposed to be looking for, but something tells him that the way Wash’s eyes slide in and out of focus isn’t good. He gently pats around the back of Wash’s head and hides a wince as his glove comes away stained bright red. Right over his implant site too, which means no biofoam. _Fuck_.

“Okay,” Tucker says. “Okay, okay, okay. Wash, I’m gonna try to move this pillar. Just—can you put your hands under it and try to push a little, like—yeah, like that.”

Wash gets his hands under the pillar as best as he can, but the leverage is minimal and he soon falls back gasping. The two of them haven’t so much as budged the goddamn thing.

“Fuck,” Tucker mutters, glancing around. “Okay, let me just—”

“ _No!_ ” Wash grabs onto his wrist as Tucker turns away to look for something they can use, his sluggish bewilderment instantly morphing into a sharp panic. “Tucker, don’t leave me here— _please_ —” 

Tucker is kneeling by Wash’s head again in an instant, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, because holy _fuck_. He doesn’t ever want to hear Wash sound like that again. “Hey! _Wash._ I’m not gonna leave you, I promise."

“I’ll try harder,” Wash says. “I can lift this, I can do it, just don’t go, I can’t—if you go— _if you go_ —”

“I’m _not._ I’m not going _anywhere_. Listen! I’m gonna radio for backup and then you and me are gonna wait right here until more of our guys come and get this fucking thing off of you. Okay? I’m _not leaving_. I’m going to protect you. Okay?”

Wash squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his head back into the ground. “I can’t feel ‘im.”

Tucker freezes in the act of turning on his radio. “What?”

“Epsilon,” Wash says, and Tucker can now hear his teeth chattering hard. “I think he’s gone, I think I…I think I fucked up, I think the ship crashed, and I can’t _feel him_ ‘nymore.”

“Wash. You’re on…you’re on Chorus, remember? This isn’t Freelancer. It’s _Chorus._ Remember?”

Wash looks at him, and Tucker can see all at once that he _doesn’t_ remember. Tucker takes a deep breath, letting Wash’s panic level out his own, and opens a radio to his squad. He can handle this. He _has_ to handle this. “Okay, guys. I—”

Tucker winces as five different voices interrupt him with frantic inquiries. _Did you find Agent Washington, where are you, what in Sam Hill is going on over there, what should we do, Captain Tucker I think I see Pelicans in the distance—_

For a moment, Tucker freezes again. It’s too much: the voices of his teammates, the sound of Wash’s increasingly ragged breathing, the smoke swirling around them. This is bad, this is _really bad_ and if Tucker doesn’t figure it out then it’s going to get _worse._

He glances again at Wash and, with a deep breath, finds his hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “Everyone shut the fuck up and listen to me!” Tucker snaps over the radio, and they all falter. “Okay. This is what we’re gonna do. Britton, I need that Pelican ready to take off the _second_ we arrive. Andersmith and Fitz, guard the entrance ramp. If you see _any_ signs of trouble, I want to hear about it. Caboose—”

“Yes, hello!” Caboose yells over the radio. “Hello, Tucker!”

“Caboose, I need your help. Wash is stuck under…under a heavy thing, I need you to come to the part of the warehouse that has all the smoke and bright red lights, and lift it the fuck off of him. Now.”

“Okay!” Caboose chirps.

“Hurry, but be _careful._ Sarge, where are you?”

“Almost at your position now, Blue. Comin’ on over to save the day in true Red Team fashion!”

“Okay, just—just cover us, okay? _Don’t_ come down here, just keep an eye on the aisles nearby. Carolina and Church, how’s that perimeter?”

“The perimeter’s _fine_ ,” Carolina says, impatient. “Are you sure you don’t want us to—”

“Yes I’m sure! Look, Wash is—he’s kind of disoriented right now and we don’t need fifteen fucking people hovering around! Just watch the _goddamn perimeter!_ ”

There’s a beat of icy silence, and a dim part of Tucker’s mind registers that maybe he shouldn’t have yelled at her in front of the squad. That larger part doesn’t really give a shit. “Okay, Captain,” she says calmly, and leaves it at that.

“Did we get all the goddamn ammo?” Tucker asks.

“They’re loading the last boxes onto the Pelican now,” Andersmith says.

“Good.” _Glad this wasn’t all for nothing_. “Caboose—”

“Almost there!”

“Okay. Britton, I’ll check in when we’re on our way. Tucker out.”

He signs off and gives Wash’s hand another squeeze. “Hey. You okay?”

Wash looks at him, eyes sliding into focus. “Tucker.”

“Yeah. It’s me. It’s Tucker.”

A crash has him whipping around, but it’s only Caboose stomping down their corridor. “Hello, everyone!”

Tucker sighs in shaky relief. “Caboose, I have never been so happy to see you.”

“Yes, well,” Caboose says smugly, “I am here to save the day, _sooo._ ”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “ _Aaaaand_ you fucking ruined it. Just get all this shit off of him, okay?”

“Okay!” Caboose examines the pile for a brief moment before hauling off some of the larger pieces of rock. “It’s okay Wash, I will move all of the heavy things and we will fly away very soon.”

“Caboose,” Tucker tells Wash quietly. “Caboose is here.”

“Yeah.” Wash takes a deep breath, giving his head a little shake. “Yeah. I—I know.”

“Good. That’s great, that’s—”

Tucker’s jerking around _again_ at the sound of something whirring behind him, hand flying to the hilt of his sword. Anger and relief course through him as Carolina rounds the corner, an aqua blur with her speed modulators screeching to a halt.

“I said _Caboose!_ ” Tucker says furiously. “Unless Caboose shrank three fucking feet and cloned himself in the last two minutes, you’re not him!”

“There are Pelicans approaching, and they’re not ours,” Carolina says shortly. “This is taking too long.”

Tucker ignores the sting of hurt her words bring. “Listen, I have the strongest person on this squad lifting this shit off of him, so I’m not sure what you think _you’re_ gonna do—”

Carolina ignores him, dropping to a crouch next to Wash. “Washington, report. Are you all right?”

Wash flinches, his grip on Tucker’s hand tightening. “Crl’ina?”

“I’m right here,” she says. “We’re going to get you out of here. Can you feel your—”

“Lina,” Wash says, and that shaky, not-quite-there note is back in his voice. “Lina, I think the ship crashed.”

Carolina pauses in her movements, perplexed. “The ship?”

“Wash,” Tucker says loudly. “Look at _me_. C’mon, stay here.”

“Is everyone else okay? York was here, but he had to go…it was too heavy…he couldn’t lift it…” Wash grabs suddenly at Carolina’s arm, who has frozen completely. “Lina, don’t go, you can’t go…”

Tucker grits his teeth. “Carolina, back _up._ I told you he was disoriented; you’re _confusing_ him—”

To Tucker’s horror, Epsilon chooses that exact moment to appear, clapping his hands together. “Alright, we got about five minutes before those Pelicans are on us. Let’s _move_ it, people, we don’t have all goddamn—”

“Epsilon?” Wash asks, and it’s so different, so startlingly different from the stiff way in Wash usually addresses him that _everyone_ freezes, even Caboose. “Epsilon, whas’ going on?”

Epsilon stares at Wash for a moment, hands falling limply to his sides, before he turns to Tucker like it’s _his fault_ and hisses, “What the _fuck_ happened?”

“We crashed,” Wash says, his voice shaky and delirious. “I think the ship crashed and I— Epsilon, I think something’s wrong, I can’t—where _are_ you?”

“I’m—I’m right here,” Epsilon says numbly, and instead of logging off like he _fucking should be_ , he steps forward into Wash’s line of sight.

Wash holds out his palm, and after a long moment, Epsilon steps into it. “I can’t—can’t _feel_ you,” Wash says, still in that same shaky voice.

For the briefest of moments, Epsilon hesitates, like he’s _actually fucking considering_ doing the unthinkable, and that’s just about enough for Tucker. “Church,” he says, struggling to keep his voice even. “You need to log off. _Now._ ”

The fucker isn’t paying him the slightest bit of attention. “It’s okay, Wash. We’re gonna get you the fuck out of here, okay?”

Tucker can’t decide if he wants to scream, or throttle Epsilon, or Carolina, or maybe every single person in Wash’s past who had _anything_ to do with the way he’s falling to pieces. He reaches across Wash and puts a firm hand on Carolina’s forearm, who hasn’t moved in minutes. For all Tucker knows she’s fucking up and died right there on the spot. She starts, looking at him. “Carolina, _you need to go._ Now! You and Church need to go—to go _fuck off_ for a while.”

“I’m not leaving him,” Epsilon says, still standing in Wash’s open palm like he has every right to be there.

Tucker learns the meaning of seeing red. “Yeah, well, you know what Church? It's kind of sounding to me like you already made that choice a long time ago.”

There’s the sound of silence, of Caboose shuffling the rocks, of Wash’s panicked breathing.

“Church,” Tucker growls. “I swear to fucking _God_. Get. Out. Of. Here.”

“Epsilon, come on,” Carolina says, and she stands. Epsilon flickers away.

“Wait,” Wash says, and the hair on Tucker’s neck stands up again at the hysterical cadence voice takes, “Wait, _wait_ —”

“Okay,” Tucker says. He reaches up to undo his helmet. It’s a little tricky, given that he’s still clutching Wash’s hand and isn’t planning on letting go unless someone chops his arm off, but he manages it. He turns Wash’s face towards him with his free hand. “Okay. Wash, _look at me_.”

Wash does. His eyes stop their frantic searching as they lock onto Tucker’s, and there is a terrifying moment in which Tucker does not see recognition in his eyes.

He takes a deep breath, pushing down his own dread. “Dude, c’mon, it’s _me_. It’s Tucker. You’re on Chorus. Everything’s okay,” he says, even though it’s not, not, _not._

Wash squeezes his eyes shut, and when he opens them again, they’re a little clearer. “Tucker,” he says. “You—you're my—we’re—”

“We’re fucking,” Tucker says wildly. “Well, okay, no we’re not, but we’re gonna be. We’ve got this super hot slow build thing going on, and the sex is gonna be _awesome_.”

Wash gives him a shaky smile, “I’ll, uh. I’ll take your word for it.”

“I’ve got you,” Tucker says. “ _We’ve got you._ We’re getting you out of here.”

He squeezes Wash’s hand tighter still as Caboose finally gets his shoulder underneath the pillar and pushes hard. He heaves the whole thing off Wash with little more than a grunt.

Wash hisses in pain, but Tucker’s relieved to see him moving his legs experimentally. “Thanks… _Caboose_. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Agent Washington,” says Caboose, and he bends down on Wash’s other side. He and Tucker each take an arm, tugging Wash to his feet. Tucker is just opening his mouth to suggest a fireman’s carry, because Wash is still shaking pretty badly, but Caboose hoists Wash onto his back without a word.

“Caboose,” Wash protests. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s okay, Wash,” Caboose says cheerfully. “I used to give my sisters piggy back rides all the time. Sometimes, ah, sometimes just for fun, and sometimes if they got hurt and scrapped a knee and it hurt too much to walk.”

“I can walk,” Wash says, despite the fact that he can barely _talk_ without slurring his words. “I’m fine, I…I’m fine.”

Caboose sighs. “That’s what _they_ would say, too. And that was very silly, because they weren’t fine, and when people aren’t fine they should say something, because. See, because I am very strong. And I could carry my sisters home, for a long way, and I wouldn’t get tired.” He readjusts Wash on his back. “I can carry my brothers home, too. You are not _that_ much heavier, Wash.”

Wash’s whole face _crumples_ , and he presses his forehead into the back of Caboose’s armor. “Okay, Caboose,” he says, locking his arms around Caboose’s neck. “Thanks, buddy.”

“You are welcome, Wash.”

Tucker hands Wash his helmet, and it dangles limply in his hand. Tucker slams his own helmet back on and gets out his gun—he doesn’t want anyone to get within twenty goddamn feet of them—and they set a brisk pace towards the Pelican, meeting up with Sarge a few rows over.

“Coast is clear,” he says, glancing between Caboose and Wash. “Where do I sign up for m’own piggyback ride?”

“I will give you one on the Pelican, Sergeant!”

“Son, how many times do I have to tell you that it’s Colonel?”

“Right. Colonel Sergeant.”

“Well, I suppose that’ll do…” Sarge matches his pace to Caboose’s and peers right into Wash’s face. “You don’t look so good, buttercup.”

“Sarge,” Tucker snaps, but shuts his mouth when he sees Wash give a weak smile.

“Hmph,” says Sarge. “Well. You just take your little cat nap, and Red Team will handle everything, as usual.”

They make their way to the Pelican, steps hastening as the roar of ships in the distance grows closer. Britton’s voice comes anxiously over the radio. “Captain Tucker, we _need_ to move out. There are five Pelicans approaching.”

“Okay, okay, we’re almost there…”

They round the corner to see Andersmith and Fitz hovering at the entrance ramp to their Pelican, and they charge on. “GO!” Fitz yells, and Britton lifts off before the ramp is fully closed.

“HOLD ON!” she yells from the front, and Tucker hangs onto the one of the handles near the ramp for dear life, glancing around wildly to make sure that everyone else is secure. Sarge and Caboose have steadied Wash between them, and they all hold on as Britton launches them into the sky, the ramp slowly closing.

They make it by the skin of their teeth. Tucker watches as the other Pelicans descend at the same time theirs rises, Britton weaving in between theirs. The last thing he sees before their ramp slams shut is another ramp opening, and a glimpse of steel and orange in the distance.

They all let out shaky sighs of relief, and as Tucker turns, he sees Carolina braced at the head of the Pelican as if she has any right to be there. Tucker shoots her a glare before yanking a first aid kit off the wall and coming to kneel in front of Wash. “How are you feeling, dude?”

Wash blinks up at him, hands patting weakly at the back of his head. Tucker tries not to focus on how they come back glistening. “’Are we going back to t’ship?”

“No,” Tucker says firmly. “We’re going back to the _base._ Armonia, remember?”

“Armonia,” Wash mumbles, “Armonia. On…”

“Chorus. Hey,” he taps at Wash’s chin until he opens his eyes. “Stay with me, okay?”

Wash nods, and Tucker climbs to his feet. In his peripheral, he sees Andersmith and Fitz exchange a glance, and whirls to face everyone. “Guys, seriously! Back up.”

“You heard the man!” Sarge snaps. He is, in fact, the only one not crowded around Wash, and whips out his deck of cards again with a flourish. “C’mon, kids, gather round. I’ve got a few more asses to whoop at blackjack.”

Tucker continues to eyeball everyone until they cluster around Sarge, then folds up a wad of gauze. Moving slowly, he reaches with the gauze towards the back of Wash’s neck to pad at the excess blood there.

Wash’s hand shoots out to grab his wrist, something sharp creeping into his gaze for the first time. “Wait…wait.”

“It’s okay dude,” Tucker says calmly. “You’re just bleeding a little. I’m gonna clean it up.”

They stare at each other before Wash slowly lets his hand fall, nodding stiffly. Wash clenches his hands atop his knees as Tucker wipes the blood away and applies a gauze bandage. His hand fastens around Tucker’s wrist a few more times while he works, and Tucker pauses each time he does so. “Do you want to do it?”

“No,” Wash says, after a momentary hesitation. “No, I…you can probably see better.”

“Yep,” Tucker says, and finishes sealing the bandage over the wound. “There, all set.”

Wash reaches up to pat at the bandage while Tucker looks to the front of the Pelican, where Carolina is still staring unabashedly. “I’ll be right back, okay dude?”

Wash nods, his hand running over his ports.

Tucker makes his way to the front of the plane, gesturing Carolina forward so that the rest of the group can’t see them. “What the fuck are you _doing_ here?” he hisses. “This isn’t your Pelican!”

“My squad already left,” Carolina says stiffly. “I needed to make sure you were all okay.”

“You’ve _got_ to be fucking kidding me! Carolina! Did you totally _miss_ that shit show back there? Seeing you is just gonna confuse him!”

Epsilon appears in front of her face. “Look, you don’t have to be _such an asshole_ about it—”

“Oh, my god Church. That goes _double_ for you.” Tucker glances between the two of them. “Seriously! Get the fuck out of here!”

“C’mon, Epsilon,” Carolina says quietly. “Let’s sit up front.”

“Yeah, you _do_ that. Just—just go where he can’t see you, and when we get back, I want a fucking explanation for what just happened.”

Carolina turns back around, her voice finally turning angry. “What makes you think I owe _you_ an explanation?”

Tucker is absolutely out of fucks to give. He leans closer to her. “ _I’m_ his team. I’m his….I’m his _friend_ , and I need to know what the fuck to _say_ to him.”

“If Wash hasn’t told you what happened in Freelancer, then—”

Tucker cuts him off. “Church, I am so fucking _sick_ of that bullshit excuse from you, so don’t even start.” He looks back to Carolina. “He thought I was going to leave him there. He really…he really thought I’d _leave_ him."

Silence. Epsilon finally stops flitting around angrily, coming to a slow halt on Carolina’s shoulder.

“That’s what happened, isn’t it?” Tucker continues, glancing between the two of them. “Something happened on that ship, and he was stuck there, and no one fucking got him _out_.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that,” Epsilon says.

“Well, then _explain_ it to me.” When neither of them answer he sighs and tries to make his voice less accusatory. “I don’t _understand_. You had a whole fucking squad of Freelancers, right? Why didn’t _anyone_ think to get him out of a burning ship? Why didn’t _you?_ ”

“Carolina was at the bottom of a cliff trying to put her own head back together,” Epsilon snaps. He appears undaunted when Carolina rounds on him furiously. “ _No,_ this is bullshit—like you just _decided_ to leave Wash there—”

“What did _you_ decide, Church?” Epsilon falters again, and Tucker shakes his head angrily. “He kept _asking_ for _you_. He thought you were still there, in his fucking head. You left him, didn’t you? You all just...just fucking _left_.”

“It’s—”

“Complicated,” Tucker says. “Yeah. I’ll fucking bet.”

He turns away.

* * *

The Pelican ride drags on and on. Wash jolts in and out of consciousness, despite Tucker and Caboose’s best efforts to keep him talking. Each time Wash jerks back awake, it is with that same frantic disorientation. He grows quieter and quieter the closer they get to the base, and when they do, Tucker peers out one of the windows with a groan.

“Fuck!” he hisses. “There’s a thousand people on this ramp—Andersmith, go fucking clear the landing zone. We don’t need an audience. Fitz, you go with him.”

Within a few minutes, they have the area clear. Tucker turns to see Sarge slinging one of Wash’s arms over his shoulder, and Tucker ducks under the other one. Caboose picks up Wash’s helmet and carries it with them.

They meet Dr. Grey halfway to the infirmary, which is thankfully not far from the landing bay. “Oh dear,” she chirps, peering into Wash’s eyes as they walk. “Oh, that is most _certainly_ a concussion. Caboose, the door, please.”

Caboose holds open the door, and they all start to shuffle into the infirmary. “Wait,” Wash says suddenly, speaking for the first time in nearly thirty minutes. “Wait, wait—I don’t need to go to the hospital—I’m fine—”

“Don’t be silly,” Dr. Grey says firmly. “You are the _opposite_ of fine. Chop chop, let’s get inside now!”

Wash doesn’t resist as Tucker and Sarge maneuver him into the infirmary and set him down on one of the beds, but he does immediately start trying to clamber to his feet. Tucker puts a hand on his elbow as he sways.

Dr. Grey takes off her helmet, turning to Sarge. “Now, it is very important that no one barges in here while I am trying to work. Do you think you could take care of that for me?”

“You got it, darlin’,” Sarge says gruffly. Tucker’s eyes bulge as he leans his head down towards her, and she places an absent-minded kiss on the corner of his helmet.

“Thank you, Colonel.”

Tucker stares, open-mouthed, as Sarge swaggers out of the room.

“Alright, listen up! I need this hallway cleared in—”

His voice cuts out as the door swings shut, and Tucker clears his throat. “Uh, so when exactly did _you_ two—”

“I’m not staying here,” Wash says. Tucker lets go of his elbow but stays close.

“Oh, _yes,_ you are,” Dr. Grey says. “Now sit back down on that bed.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Wash says, and he lifts his chin defiantly.

 Dr. Grey slams down the medical scanner she was readying and whirls to face him. “Agent Washington, you are _not_ fine. You are quite possibly the _farthest_ thing from fine that I have ever seen, and I have seen my share of _not fine things!_ You are going to sit back down, and you are going to let me give you a proper head examination, and then you are going to stay _here,_ overnight, for observation.”

“ _No,_ ” Wash says loudly. “No. I’m not—I’m not staying in this hospital bed overnight, I _won’t_ —”

“Wash, I’m sorry, but you really must,” Dr. Grey says, undaunted. “Given your history of past head trauma, it is very important that you be monitored during sleeping, and woken up every two hours—”

“I won’t sleep,” Wash says wildly. “No one has to wake me, I’ll stay awake, I _will,_ I’ll—”

“ _That isn’t a better solution!_ ”

“Wash,” Tucker mutters. “Look, maybe—”

They both ignore him. “I’m not staying here,” Wash says slowly. “I’m not staying in this hospital, and you can’t make me.”

“Oh, _Washington,_ let me assure you that I not only _can_ , but _will_. You are _injured_ , and you are my _patient_ , and you are _not._ Leaving. This room!”

They stare at each other before Wash snags his helmet and starts towards the door, swaying slightly but still determined. “ _Washington,_ ” Dr. Grey says, her voice rising, “don’t you dare take another step towards that door!”

Wash ignores her, continuing his purposeful strides towards the door, and for a moment Tucker thinks Dr. Grey is going to let him—

Tucker’s jaw drops as Dr. Grey inserts herself between Wash and the doorway, her palms slamming up on either side of the doorframe as she digs her heels in. “ _NO!_ ”

Wash falters, momentarily shocked, before toeing up with her. Tucker’s more than a little impressed by the way Dr. Grey doesn’t even flinch at the trapped-animal look in his eyes. “Look—Dr. Grey—I can’t stay here—I can’t be in—in a hospital bed— _you have to let me out of this room!_ ”

“I most certainly do _not_.”

The look in Wash’s eyes turns desperate. “ _Emily—please_ —”

“That’s Dr. _Grey_ to you, Agent Washington.”

Silence. Tucker holds his breath, glancing between the two of them, before Dr. Grey sighs, something softening in her eyes. “Wash, please understand that I do count you as a dear friend. But—” she jerks her thumb behind her “—you have _oodles_ and oodles of friends lined up for you out there. Right now, I can’t be one of them. Right now, I am your _doctor_. And I need you to scoot back into this room and sit down. Now.”

After a long moment, Wash takes a step backwards, then another, and another, until he is seated stiffly on the edge of the bed. “Thank you,” Dr. Grey says formally, and for the first time, she turns her attention to Tucker. “Now. Tucker, please leave.”

Tucker balks. “What? Are you fucking kidding me? I’m not going _anywhere_ —”

Her eyes narrow to slits. “Oh, yes you are.”

“But—”

Tucker glances at Wash, but Wash is staring blankly at the wall in front of him, fiddling with his gauntlets. The flat, expressionless look on his face is almost worse than the gut-wrenching look of panic he’d worn back at the warehouse and on the Pelican. “Wash…”

Wash doesn’t look at him, not even when Tucker takes a few hesitant steps forward. Dr. Grey swiftly steps in between the two of them and from the look on her face, she’s had enough for one day. “Captain Tucker, _get the hell away from my_ patient or I’ll have you _thrown. Out._ ”

Wash does look up at that, something sharp and seeing on his face at her words, before flicking his eyes over to Tucker. “S’okay, Tucker,” he says dully. “I’m okay.”

Tucker doesn’t know if he wants to punch him or hug him or kiss his stupid face. _You’re not okay_ , he wants to scream. _You’re not okay, not at all._

Dr. Grey huffs. “I’m not asking you to leave forever, silly. Just for a little while. Wash will need a few people checking in on him at two-hour intervals, to ask him questions and keep an eye on that pesky concussion.”

The fact that Wash doesn’t even protest the idea of people waking him up in the middle of the night, just continues to stare at the wall, tells Tucker all he needs to know about how he’s faring. “I can ask around,” Tucker says, desperate to do something useful. “See if I can get some people to volunteer.”

“That would be wonderful, Tucker, thank you,” Dr. Grey says pleasantly, then gestures towards the door. “Go on, then.”

After one final hesitation, Tucker nods slowly. “Fine. I’ll be right outside, Wash, okay?”

Wash doesn’t answer, and Tucker half raises a hand towards him before letting it fall and quietly exiting the room.

“Well?” Sarge asks, the moment the door shuts behind him. “How’s Princess Freckles?”

“Princess Freckles has had it up to here with all this bullshit,” Tucker grumbles, throwing himself against the wall next to Sarge. “And you know what? So have I.”

“That makes a whole lot of us, Aquaman.”

Tucker sighs, glancing towards the end of the hallway. Dr. Grey wasn’t kidding: there are at least two dozen soldiers clustered at the end there, a respectful distance away from the infirmary doors, but not trying to hide the fact that they’re loitering. As Tucker watches, Caboose breaks away from the crowd and shuffles over.

“Ummm, Tucker. Um.”

“He’s fine, Caboose,” Tucker sighs, even though it’s not true, because what the fuck else is he supposed to say? “He’s just….he’s just tired.”

“His head is all broken,” Caboose says sadly.

Tucker bristles. “It is _not,_ Caboose, _Jesus_.”

“Ah, well, I think it might be.” Caboose pauses. “It’s okay. Sometimes mine is broken too.”

Tucker stares at him for a while before clearing his throat. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… _thanks_ , Caboose. For getting that fucking pillar off of Wash. You, uh. You did _good._ ”

“Thank you, Tucker. That is very nice of you to say that, but I am just happy that I am strong enough to lift the things.”

Sarge stares between the two of them before muttering, “Blue Team,” and stalking off down the hallway.

* * *

It’s almost two hours before Dr. Grey allows Tucker and Caboose back into the infirmary. “Just a quick hello,” she says sternly. “He’s had a very trying day, and it’s getting late.”

Wash is out of his armor, seated stiffly in his hospital bed. He still has that same blank expression on his face, and when he thanks Caboose and Tucker for their help, it’s in a voice completely devoid of emotion.

They don’t stay long. Dr. Grey pulls all the sim troopers into her office after, and surveys them with a critical eye. Tucker will deny it if asked, but he’s feeling pretty affection towards these assholes, all of whom had agreed to take a shift to wake Wash up that night without much complaining or questions. Dr. Grey lectures them all on the proper methods of waking someone up during a post-concussion sleep, and appropriate questions to ask them.

When it’s Tucker’s turn to check in on Wash, in the early hours of the morning, Wash is already awake, arms looped around his knees as he stares out the window. He answers Tucker’s questions quietly, robotically, as if he’d been repeating them to himself all night. Tucker suspects he has.

Tucker stays, seated in the chair next to Wash’s bed, until dawn begins to break through the windows. Neither of them say a word.

* * *

“So you’re telling me that he was _already_ awake when _every single one of you_ went to check on him?”

Tucker glances around at the rest of the guys, all of whom shrug and nod at each other. They have all gathered in Dr. Grey’s office early the next morning, to compare notes on Wash’s lucidity after being woken up, only to find…

Dr. Grey taps her foot impatiently. “Well? Did anyone have to actually wake him up?”

“Maybe he was sleeping in between the check-ups,” Caboose says helpfully. “We can just ask him, and—”

Grif snorts. “Yeah, like he’s going to answer that honestly.”

“So if he didn’t sleep, then…” Simmons tilts his head. “That means he’s been awake for almost twenty-four hours now.”

“Wow, did you do that math without a calculator?”

“Shut _up,_ Grif—”

Dr. Grey throws up her hands. “Oh, my goodness gracious. That man…” she slams a few notebooks around on her desk. “Most stubborn patient I’ve _ever_ …just _unbelievable_ …”

“That’s not good,” Simmons says bluntly. “If he hasn’t slept in twenty-four hours, and he doesn’t sleep today. You should watch out for signs of sleep deprivation and—”

“ _I know what signs to watch out for_ , Captain Simmons!”

Tucker is utterly unsurprised when she’s kicking them all out of her office two minutes later. He hangs back in the doorway. “So, how was he this morning, when you check on him?”

Dr. Grey glances up, surprised to still see him there. “Tucker, I am not discussing Washington’s private medical information with you.”

“I’m not asking you to!” Tucker snaps. “I’m just…look, I just want to know if he’s okay.”

She sighs, taking a seat and eyeing him. “Medically, he is fine. The armor saved his legs from any real damage from that pillar. The concussion he suffered was small, only worrisome in that Agent Washington has had multiple head injuries at this point and _really_ can’t have another. I’m far more worried about the…psychological scarring that this event could have caused. And he needs to sleep. It is of the utmost importance that he sleep today, and if I have to give him a sedative, I _will_.”

“You can’t give him a sedative,” Tucker says, alarmed. “He doesn’t react well to them.”

Dr. Grey pauses in reshuffling some papers. “What does that mean?”

“He…” Tucker racks his brain, thinking hard back to Rockslide, to something that Wash had told him once…. “They gave him sleeping pills, when he was in Recovery after Freelancer, because he was having shitty nightmares and wasn’t sleeping. He said that the pills made him sleep, but they didn’t stop the dreams, so he was like, stuck inside them and couldn’t wake up. Like some fucked-up horror movie bullshit.”

Dr. Grey surveys him over the edge of her glasses, frowning. “He didn’t tell me that.”

Tucker shrugs uncomfortably. “You saw him, didn’t you? He probably didn’t remember.”

“Hmm…” Dr. Grey shuffle some more papers until she finds what Tucker presumes to be Wash’s file, and makes a note. “Thank you, Tucker, that’s valuable information for me to have.”

“Let me try first,” Tucker says. “Let me try to see if I can get him to take a fucking _nap_ before…before you go jabbing sedatives into people, Christ.”

Dr. Grey taps a pencil against her desk before sighing. “Fine. But if you can’t get him to sleep, I will find him, and I will _find a way_ to make him sleep. Is that crystal clear?”

“Yeah yeah, I got it, _geez_ …”

* * *

Tucker doesn’t get a chance to speak to Wash until the end of the day. First he has to do a mission debriefing with Kimball and Doyle, both of whom are positively giddy over all the ammo that they got. It’s awkward, because Carolina and Epsilon are flat out ignoring him across the room, which is fine.

Just fine.

Then he has to help catalogue the ammo, and check it all for bombs, and help patrol the outer walls of the base because everyone is on edge, and help write up an evacuation plan, and on, and on, and on.

He doesn’t so much as catch a glimpse of Wash all day. Not in the mess hall, not in his room, not in the infirmary, not even working himself to the bone in the training room. He’s starting to get worried, because he wouldn’t put it past Wash at all to take off in order to save them from himself or something ridiculous. After an early evening shower, Tucker takes yet another peek in Wash’s room. No Wash, but there are various pieces of his armor lying on the floor.

Tucker isn’t sure if he’s more alarmed by the fact that only half of Wash’s armor is on the floor, or that it’s on the floor in the first place. Wash always took the utmost care of his armor, hanging it up neatly and polishing it every week. He was constantly hanging up Caboose’s and Tucker’s back at Rockslide and the crash site, and Tucker used to give him shit for it, for always hovering and nitpicking and cleaning up after them.

For taking care of them, Tucker realizes now.

He surveys the discarded armor, his chest tight and heavy, before whirling around and marching off in search of Wash. If he’s wandering around with only bits of his armor on, then he’s definitely too exhausted to be wandering anywhere.

After a good fifteen minutes of searching the base, Tucker finds Wash in some barely-used hallway. Sure enough, he’s wearing most of his lower body armor, but he’s missing one of the greaves, and only one of his arms is covered. He has one hand braced against the wall, the other clamped down over the back of his ports, and he’s visibly swaying on his feet.

“Oh boy,” Tucker sighs, and makes his way down the hallway to Wash. “Seriously? You need to sit down before you—whoa!”

Wash jerks his arm out of Tucker’s hand, the movement sluggish but sure, and stumbles backwards. “Don’t,” he says sharply. “Just don’t.”

Tucker holds his hands up. “Okay, dude.” He looks Wash up and down. Messy hair, dark circles, and paler than Tucker’s ever seen. “Where the fuck have you _been_ all day?”

“That’s none of your business,” Wash says, still in that same sharp voice. “I don’t—I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“Wash,” Tucker says calmly. “You really, really need to sit down before you pass out. I mean, I can do the knight in shining armor thing and carry you back to your room, but it’s not exactly right around the corner, so—”

“I’m fine—”

Tucker throws up his hands. “Stop saying you’re fine!”

“I AM fine!”

Silence. Wash rests his forehead against the wall. “I am fine,” he says again, quieter.

“Okay,” Tucker says. “You’re fine, I’m fine, everything’s fine. But you still need to go lay the fuck down and sleep before you collapse.”

“I’m not sleeping,” Wash says, and _Jesus Christ_ Tucker has never met anyone so stubborn.

“So, what, you’re just gonna stay awake? _Forever?_ ”

“I can—I can take quick naps,” Wash says. “Here and there, I’ve done it before, it’s fine—”

“Listen, dude,” Tucker says sharply, “If you don’t go to sleep, Dr. Grey is gonna chase you around the base with a fucking sedative.”

Wash jerks his head away from the wall, staring at him. “She can’t _do_ that—”

“Sounds to me like she’s pretty fucking determined.”

“She—what, so she _sent_ you here? To do what? Try to get me to _sleep?_ ”

Tucker folds his arms across his chest, glaring at Wash. “Something like that.”

Wash laughs, but the sound is all wrong, cold and biting and hurtful. “Well, I’m not sure why she would do that. I don’t—I don’t _need_ you, to come here, and tell me that I’m—I _don’t_ need you to…I don’t need you.”

“Oh-ho my god, could you be any more _dramatic_ —”

He jumps as Wash slams the side of his fist into the wall next to them. “Tucker, _stop!_ Leave me _alone!_ Just _leave me alone_ and—”

“Yeah, we’re skipping this part,” Tucker interrupts, and Wash falters.

“We’re—what?”

“This part. We’re skipping it.” He sighs when Wash continues to stare at him blankly. “You know, the part where you get all fucking melodramatic and try to push me away, and tell me I’m too good for you or some other well-rehearsed bullshit—”

“Tucker—”

“We’re skipping the _lame ass part_ where you fucking shut me out and go it alone,” he says, and he steps forward to cups Wash’s tired face fiercely between his hands. Wash lets him. “We’re _skipping_ it. That’s not our—not our _story_. Our story is way more fucking interesting. And way more badass. And way sexier. Okay?”

Tucker feels Wash’s face tighten underneath his palms as he closes his eyes. “I don’t—Tucker—I don’t know if I _can_ —”

“I know,” Tucker says. “Dude, I _know_. We’re just gonna—just gonna go to sleep. Okay? I’m tired as _shit_ , man, and I know you are too.”

“If I fall asleep,” Wash says hollowly, “I’m…I’m afraid that I’ll…fall. That I’ll—wake up, and not _remember_ right, and—”

“Well, that’s why I’m gonna be there. I can remind you. That sounds a hell of a lot better than you being confused all goddamn night.”

Wash’s hands come up to grip Tucker’s wrists, squeezing lightly. “I don’t…if I _hurt_ you…”

“Wash, you are way too fucking tired to hurt me, or _anyone._ That’s the problem. If the mercs drop in from the ceiling right this second, you’re fucked.” He drops his hands from Wash’s face and grabs one of his hands. “C’mon. Let’s go to bed.”

He tugs, and after a moment of hesitation, Wash follows him. Tucker leads them to Wash’s room, thinking that some familiarity might be good. Wash’s bed is perfectly made, but there are pieces of his armor scattered around the room. Tucker lets go of Wash’s hand and sets about stacking Wash’s armor neatly off to the side, collecting the pieces that Wash drops onto the floor as he unsnaps the rest from his body.

By the time he finishes, Wash has stepped out of his survival suit and is unfolding a pair of sweatpants. Tucker tries and fails not to stare, because holy shit, those _thighs_ , and that _ass_ —

“Subtle, Tucker,” Wash sighs as he pulls on the sweatpants, but there’s a half-smile pulling at his lips.

“Dude, I can’t _help_ it,” Tucker says, whipping off his own shirt and tossing it in the corner. “You look like a fucking  marble _statue,_ Jesus _Christ_.”

Wash’s eyes flick up and down Tucker’s bare torso before he darts them away, embarrassed. Tucker sighs and flops onto Wash’s bed, flipping the covers back. “Alright, come on. Get over here and go the fuck to sleep.”

Tucker fights hard not to roll his eyes as Wash takes one awkward step after the other, until he’s perched on the edge of the bed. With an exasperated groan, Tucker drags his shoulders down until they’re laying side by side, flings an arm over Wash’s torso, and drops his head right on Wash’s chest.

“Um,” Wash says. “What are you doing?”

Tucker lifts his head to stare at Wash, raising an eyebrow. “Uh, what the fuck does it look like I’m doing? I’m trying to go to sleep. So should you.”

“Oh,” Wash pauses. “I just, I didn’t realize, I thought…”

Tucker stares at him, bewildered, until it clicks. “What, you thought I was gonna like, sleep across the room? Put a divider down the middle of the bed? This isn’t _amateur_ hour, Wash.  You’re cuddling with the pros now.”

Wash sort of awkwardly pats his hands against Tucker’s shoulders, hesitating, _still_. “Are you sure?”

“Oh my god,” Tucker groans, dropping his head back to Wash’s chest. “Dude, put your arms around me and go the fuck to sleep before I get a boner. I can only control myself for so long before I start feeling you up. Seriously, _who has abs like this?_ ”

Wash’s chest rumbles pleasantly with laughter against his ear as Tucker runs his fingertips down Wash’s chest to his abs, then back up again. His arms finally come up to loop around Tucker, one hand resting on his back, the other tangling in his hair and stroking gently and Tucker wants to fucking _purr,_ it feels so good.

“Go to sleep,” he sighs against Wash’s chest. “Just go to sleep. I’ve got you.”

* * *

It’s the longest night of Tucker’s life.

Tucker’s only ever run in on the tail end of Wash’s nightmares before. He thought that was the worst of it: the screaming, the thrashing, the shaking. While it’s a terrible, awful, heart-wrenching thing to witness, it turns out that the end of the nightmares isn’t the worst of it, after all. It’s not the beginning, either, when Wash starts to twitch and toss and turn, when he sighs and mumbles and frowns a little in his sleep.

The worst, by _far_ , is the middle: after the nightmare has set in, but before the screaming desperation has. It’s the stuttered breathing, and the hurt little noises and, most of all, the way Wash scrambles for something, _anything,_ to hold. It’s the way he clutches at the sheets and the pillows and pulls them towards him, holding them to his chest with shaking arms. It’s the way he is so clearly searching for something to find comfort in, to sink into, to hold onto.

As the night goes on, Tucker tugs away the blankets and the sheets and lets Wash hold him instead. He starts by giving Wash a hand, then his arm, then simply pulling Wash tight against his body while Wash wraps his arms around Tucker’s torso and shakes and shakes.

Wash had been so certain that he’d hurt Tucker if he tried to wake him up, but Tucker _can’t_ wake him up. Not when he’s in the middle of the nightmare. It’s worse, _far_ worse, to feel Wash shudder against him, to listen to the agonized noises, and know that he can’t do a goddamn thing about it.

But he tries. He holds Wash tighter than he’s ever held anyone in his life, and mutters into his hair—reassuring things, sexy things, ridiculous things, _anything_ he can think of. Sometimes, he thinks it’s working, when Wash’s body relaxes against Tucker’s chest, and the hurt animal noises stop, but they always start up again.

When the nightmares peak, when Tucker is _finally_ able to wake him up, when Wash thrashes so hard that they both end up on the floor tangled up in the sheets and each other, when Wash is wide-eyed and panicked and confused, with no idea where or when he is—the fact is, Tucker doesn’t know what to say. There are no good words for when the person who is your teammate, your mentor, your friend, your _something_ , is shaking on the floor, simultaneously trying to push you away and pull you close.

There are no good words, but Tucker tries to find them anyway.

 _Do you want talk about it? It’s okay. It was just a bad dream. You’re safe._ Words, so many words, but they are all up _too high_ , and they are all _wrong_.

Because the two of them are _not_ up high. They are just two men tangled in sweat-soaked sheets on the ground, in an unfamiliar base, on an unfamiliar planet that _might_ be, that _could_ be home, that _wants_ to be home. Someday, but not now. Now, it is only Wash and Tucker, and the way the ground looks in the dark of an endless night.

So Tucker does not bother with words that are up in the clouds. Instead, he roots around on the floor, scrounges for the most basic building blocks he can find and hands them to Wash, one by one. _Your name is Agent Washington. Your friends call you Wash. You’re on a planet called Chorus. We fell on the floor._

_Epsilon isn’t here. It’s just you and me._

_Come back to bed dude, I’ve got you._

_Your name is Agent Washington, and mine is Lavernius Tucker._

_Your name is Wash, and mine is Tucker._

_Your name is Wash, and mine is Tucker._


	12. Chapter 12

His head is broken but he has been here before.

There is something cracked and raw and bleeding, deep inside his mind, but Wash knows how to do this. He knows the steps he must take to put the broken pieces back together, the things he must tell himself. He knows which memories go in which boxes, and what he can use to anchor himself to the present. Wash has woken up in many unfamiliar hospital beds, with the beeps and buzzes and the thin sheets. He is always cold when he sleeps, but never more than when in a hospital bed. That’s the worst of it, he always tells himself. The cold is the worst part. He can do cold. He can handle the cold. He—

He’s not cold.

It takes Wash several minutes of climbing the slow ladder back to consciousness to realize that he is _warm,_ a comforting weight pressed against his chest. He has never slept so warm before, and certainly not when waking up after an _event_. The hospital beds are _always_ freezing, which must mean….

Wash opens his eyes.

There’s dreaded black hair inches from his face, held back by a thick headband. Wash gazes further down as best he can without moving to see dark skin, smooth and warm, pressed against his own freckled chest. For a moment, he thinks he’s still dreaming, or dropped into some parallel universe where he hasn’t done terrible things and deserves to wake up like _this_ every morning.

He then catches sight of the little window at the foot of his bed, and his steel and yellow armor stacked neatly against the wall, and he remembers Chorus, and the sim troopers, and _Tucker._

Tucker sighs against his chest. Wash can’t see his face from this angle, but his breathing is low and deep. Wash’s own hands are resting flat against Tucker’s back and he revels in the feel of Tucker’s skin, ridiculously smooth and ridiculously warm. How is it possible for another person to hold in this much body heat _?_

“Are you doing that thing where you pretend to be asleep because it’s so like, _cozy_ and shit? ‘Cause no lie, _I_ totally am.”

“How are you this hot?” Wash blurts, and instantly feels his face turning red. “I mean--like your body is just—no, I mean, it’s so _warm_. Temperature wise. Not that you’re not um. That kind of warm too, but I meant—”

Tucker’s shifting to face him now, limbs stretching languidly against Wash’s. He turns a beaming, sleepy smile towards Wash and that is _absolutely not helping_ Wash find the right words. “I know, right? I’m fuckin’ _smoking._ ”

“God, Tucker,” Wash huffs, struggling to find some measure of control in this conversation before giving up. “Just—well, fine. That too.”

Tucker’s smile turns delighted. “You remembered my name.”

“What?”

“My _name_.” Tucker yawns, then pushes himself up a little so he’s leaning over Wash, their chests still pressed together. “You remembered it. You remember yours too?”

The night comes back to Wash then, in uncomfortable clarity: the nightmares, the confusion, the way he’d fallen on the floor. “I—yes. _Wash_. It’s Wash.”

“And where are we?”

“Chorus. Armonia.”

“Do you know what year it is?”

Wash has to think a little on that one. “Uh…2556.”

“Yup. Three for three.” Tucker’s light-hearted expression turns a touch more serious. “You remember what happened?”

“I…” Wash frowns at Tucker, eyebrows furrowed. “There was an explosion. At the warehouse. I couldn’t…couldn’t move. I hit my head and I couldn’t move.”

“Yeah, dude. You were all banged up. You’re okay, though.”

“Is everyone else…are they…”

“They’re fine,” Tucker says quickly. “Everything’s fine. We got a _fuck_ ton of ammo too, like holy shit.”

Wash stares at him. There’s something else, some vitally important detail he knows that he’s missing, something that… “I was confused.”

“Yeah,” Tucker says quietly. “Yeah, you were.”

_Things on fire, smoke swirling up to the ceiling. York went to get help. Epsilon is in his head, is not in his head, is standing in his open palm. Tucker came back for him._

_Tucker came back for him._

“You came and got me.”

Tucker blinks. “Well, yeah.”

“My radio was busted. You couldn’t hear me, but you…you came anyway. You and Caboose.”

Tucker’s rolling his eyes now. “Yeah, dude. What, like we were just gonna fucking leave you there? Jesus.”

_York can’t lift the pillar and he left to get help, Carolina will be here soon, Carolina always comes, always, always, always—_

“That’s what happened, isn’t it?” Tucker says. He’s watching Wash’s expression closely. “You were stuck there, on that Freelancer ship, and no one…”

_He remembers now, panicking as Tucker glanced around to look for something to move the pillar, thinking that Tucker was going to leave—remembers clutching onto his arm, his hand; remembers reaching for him, in the dark of the night, Tucker’s arms around him, Tucker muttering into his hair, Tucker holding onto him and Wash clutching back as if he had any right—_

Wash moves to sit up, leaning against the wall, and Tucker follows to sit across from him. “Thank you, Tucker,” Wash says. “For…assessing the situation and getting me out, and for…for…staying with me, last night. You didn’t have to do that.”

Tucker groans. “Oh, god. Here it comes.”

“I shouldn’t have _let_ you do that,” Wash continues. “I wasn’t thinking straight—”

“Yeah, that’s _exactly why_ you needed someone here—”

“I had no _right_ to ask you to stay with me.”

“You didn’t _ask_ me! I fucking _volunteered!_ ”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Wash says again. “That was very…very generous of you, but—”

“Wash, stop,” Tucker snaps. “ _We’re skipping this part._ Remember? We’re not doing this. It wasn’t _generous_ of me. I wasn’t doing you any goddamn favors. I was just doing what…what teammates, or friends, or, you know, what _people_ do.”

Wash looks away until Tucker reaches out and taps his knee. “Hey. You don’t have to go everything _alone_ , you know. You’ve got a whole fucking army here.”

“So…” Wash swallows hard. “So, if we’re skipping that part, where I…”

“Get all fucking dramatic for no goddamn reason?”

Wash gives him a look. “Then what happens next?”

“What happens next,” Tucker says simply, “is that you tell me about Freelancer.”

Wash feels something inside of him slam shut, and he doesn’t realize he’s flinching away until he feels his shoulders press harder into the wall. There are a million things he could say here: _I don’t have to tell you anything, that’s none of your business, there’s nothing to tell._

Yet—

Wash isn’t better. He had known for some time now that he will have nightmares for the rest of his life, and that memories will surface unexpectedly, but they had hit him so _hard_ at the warehouse. He hadn’t realized just how close he was to the edge, or how easy it would’ve been to fall. He knows, he _knows_ , that if Tucker had left him there, if no one had come for him, that he _would_ have fallen, and he wouldn’t have been able to get back up this time.

So he looks at Tucker, and tries for the truth.

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Okay,” Tucker says. “I mean, look—I’m not trying to pry, or get all up in your business—I mean I _am_ — _bowchickabowwow_ —but—just— _look_. We all have shit we don’t like to talk about, ya know? I get that. But this—it’s something you still dream about, like a _lot_.”

Wash nods. No point in denying the obvious.

“I just think that…” Tucker shrugs. “It might help if I knew what went down. So that I know what to say, when you wake up.”

“You said all the right things,” Wash reassures him, focusing on the statement as opposed to the implications of it, of Tucker wanting to _be there_ when he woke up. “It helps, to remind myself of my name and where I am.”

He doesn’t realize just how bad that sounded until he catches the faintly sick look on Tucker’s face. “Okay, dude. I can do that. But…but I think I have to understand _why_.”

Wash looks at him, long and searching, before he nods. He shifts around on the bed until his back is facing Tucker and runs a self-conscious hand over his implants. His fingers ruffle through hair that’s getting too long, but he’s always kept the area around the ports shaved. The bandage covering his latest head wound is just above the implantation site, and he checks to make sure that’s secure before dropping his hand with a sigh. “You can see the scars.”

It’s a statement, not a question. There’s no doubt that Tucker can see his scars. _Everyone_ can see his scars.

“Yeah. I can see them.”

Wash doesn’t miss the way that Tucker shifts his hands slowly, deliberately moving in Wash’s peripheral vision. Tucker’s hands land on his shoulders, and Wash lets out a shaky breath. “I, uh. I don’t know where to start.”

Tucker’s hands drift up to his neck, thumbs running gently down the two long scars that Wash knows mark the skin on either side of his ports. “How about with these two?”

_Epsilon realizes at the same time Wash does exactly what’s about to happen and their renewed struggle is almost enough to break away. Maine spins him around so that Wash is facing the wall and winds a hand in his hair to keep his head still—his hair’s too long, it’s way too long, he thinks hysterically, Carolina had told him two weeks ago to cut it—and Wash feels Maine’s other hand clamp across the back of his neck below his implants—_

“Maine,” Wash blurts. “Maine. He tried to cut Epsilon out of my head.”

Tucker’s hands stutter on the back of his neck, but he recovers rapidly, and when he speaks, his voice is steady. “Maine…he was the Meta, right?”

“He wasn’t the Meta then,” Wash says quickly. “Well. At that point he was. But he was Maine, before that. He was…he was my friend. My—my best friend.”

“He took a bunch of people’s A.I, right?”

“Yes. I think Epsilon was the first he tried to take.”

“But he didn’t succeed.”

“No.” Wash takes a deep breath. “He didn’t. I— _we_ —got away. And then…”

He falters again. Tucker’s hands move from his neck down to his shoulders, rubbing circles there, and Wash closes his eyes, letting the sensation anchor him. “I’ve never talked about this before.”

“Not even in…well, in the hospital?”

“I was too out of it, by then.”

Tucker traces his fingertips lightly over another set of scars on the back of Wash’s neck. “What about these? They look like some pretty nasty burn marks.”

Right. Those. “That’s from when they pulled Epsilon. The initial implantation was…rough, so they put a lock on the ports. Didn’t want me to try to pull him myself and do more damage. That’s what Maine was trying to cut—the lock. They had to take them off quickly to pull Epsilon, because…because…”

Wash drags his hands down his face. Refocuses. Tucker’s hands are on his back, strong and warm. “You know about Alpha.”

“Yeah. I know about Alpha.” Tucker’s voice grows more confident. “He was the original A.I, and they did all this fucked up shit to torture him. They gave the pieces to the Freelancers, and you got Epsilon.”

Wash nods. “Right. Epsilon was the memories. When they put him in my head, I got flashes of everything they had done to Alpha. We…Epsilon and I…we were going to try to rescue Alpha. Put a stop to the whole thing. But I…I slipped up. They didn’t know _what_ we knew, but they knew it was something big and…and they decided that Epsilon had to go.”

Another pause. Another breath.

“Epsilon didn’t want to go.”

Tucker’s hands haven’t stopped rubbing circles into his back, and he continues to wait patiently, but there’s a tension seeping into the room that Wash doesn’t think he’s imagining. “I didn’t want Epsilon to go either,” Wash adds, because he thinks it’s important for Tucker to know that. “He was my…I was supposed to _protect_ him. We were supposed to protect each _other._ We…”

_You should’ve run, Wash._

Wash shakes his head and pushes forward, determined to get everything out, like leaching poison from a wound. “The Director called us into a room and I…and he…”

_—Epsilon doesn’t hear him, maybe can’t hear him, and as time speeds up again, Wash watches in horror as his own hand snaps to his hip, removes his pistol, and fires two rounds at the Director—_

_—You should have run, Wash—_

_—Epsilon breaks himself apart, one piece at a time, each jagged memory slicing through Wash’s own. There’s Alpha sobbing as they take Beta away, there’s Allison packing her things, there’s Naomi chasing their little brown dog around the yard. There’s a casket, and a flag, and men in uniform at the door, and—_

Wash doesn’t realize that he’s curled in on himself, elbows propped on his knees and hands fisting in his hair until he feels Tucker edge even closer, pressing his chest tight to Wash’s back. Tucker’s hands rub up and down his arms, tugging them away from his hair, and when he speaks, Wash feels the words ghost across his neck. “Hey. _Hey_.”

“He tried to kill himself,” Wash says, before he loses his nerve. “Epsilon. He tried to kill himself.”

This time when Tucker’s hands freeze, they don’t immediately start up again, and he can’t hide the shock in his voice. “While…while he was in your _head?_ ”

“Yeah.” A shuddering breath. He’s okay. _His name is Wash and he’s on Chorus and he’s_ okay. “When it became clear that they were going to pull him he…he took control, of my body. Shot the Director and then tried to rip himself apart.”

“In your head,” Tucker echoes again. His hands come up to rest on Wash’s temples. “What did….”

He stops, but Wash can hear the unspoken end to that sentence: _What did that feel like?_ “Like _I_ was being ripped apart,” Wash says, then closes his eyes, plows onward and gives Tucker the final piece. “I tried to kill myself, too. I just…I just wanted it to stop. I got ahold of a gun and I…I pulled the trigger. If one of the guards hadn’t bumped my elbow, then…”

They both fall silent for a long time.

“I didn’t _want_ to die,” Wash says after a while. “I know that _now_. But for a long time…for a long time I thought I did. There was too much going on, and we were so tightly wound together that…when they pulled him, I didn’t know which memories were mine and which were Alpha’s and which were the Director’s.”

Tucker’s cheek is pressed into the back of Wash’s shoulder, arms tightening around his torso, and Wash can continue, like this. “The ship crashed and I was stuck there, pinned down in the infirmary. Sometimes, I think I saw York, I think he tried to…One of the doctors came. Tronosky. He got me out, took me to an off-site hospital. Kept the Director and the Counselor away from me for a while. He saved my life. I had a few nurses who looked after me, and I was too out of it to realize it then, but they protected me, however they could.”

“Didn’t they want to question you? The Freelancer people?” Tucker asks.

“They did, but…my doctor kept them away for quite some time. They drove him off eventually—he knew too much—but he’d given me enough time.” Wash laughs bitterly. “After that, I couldn’t have told them anything even if I wanted to.”

“Why?” Tucker asks, after a moment of hesitation.

Wash sighs. How can he explain that part of his loosened grip on his sanity at that time had been calculated? “When they told me my friends were all dead, I…I lost it. Partially because I knew I had to, but the other part…I was _so_ messed up. I didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t. I thought Epsilon was still in my head.” Wash traces his thumb down the jagged scar just to the right of his implants. “Got ahold of a screw and tried to tear him out myself. They restrained me for a while, after that. I… I couldn’t eat, or bathe, or…I didn’t…didn’t even know my own _name_.”

“But you remembered it.”

“Yeah. It took _years_ , but I—yeah.” Wash half turns his head to look at Tucker, but Tucker still has his face pressed tight to Wash’s back. “I’m still a _mess_ , Tucker. I still get confused, and…and _violent_ , and I forget my name, and where I am.”

Tucker sighs, lifting his head away from Wash’s back and resuming rubbing circles into it instead. “I know, dude. I know.”

Wash turns back around and lets Tucker’s hands knead the tension out of his body. He’s half-waiting for Tucker to get up and leave, but he doesn’t. “That’s fucked up,” Tucker says after a while. “That they just left you there, on that ship. That Church…that he…”

“It wasn’t their fault,” Wash says with a sigh. “It…it hurt, for a long time, but….we all had scars from Freelancers. The day the ship went down, everyone was just trying to survive, the best they knew how. Carolina had just as hard of a time with it as I did. Worse, probably.”

“They still could’ve come for you after,” Tucker says, and Wash can hear the thin line of anger underscoring all of his words. “In the hospital.”

“Maybe,” Wash says. “Hell, maybe they _did_. Maybe they tried. I don’t know. I never asked Carolina…”

 _Carolina._ She had been there, at the warehouse. Wash has hazy memories of her and Tucker and either side of him, two blurs of aqua in his unfocused vision. _I’m glad you’re here, boss,_ Wash had said to her, just before the mission, when he had thought that things were okay, that they had finally reached a point where Freelancer was a distant thing they never had to talk about. _Foolish,_ he realizes now.

“Still,” Tucker says stubbornly, and even thought Wash can’t see him, he can practically feel Tucker struggling to hold back his next words before they burst out. “And _Church!_ That’s just so fucked up! Who tries to _kill themselves_ in someone else’s head? What the fuck kind of fucked up bullshit _is_ that?”

“I hate it,” Tucker says when Wash doesn’t, _can’t,_ respond. “I hate that they stuck these goddamn A.I. in your heads, and I hate that Church fucked your head all up, and I hate that your team fucking _left_ you. I _hate_ it.”

He’s holding tight to Wash again, and Wash just closes his eyes and squeezes Tucker’s arms. The concept of leaving someone behind is _unthinkable_ to Tucker, Wash realizes, unthinkable to _any_ of the sim troopers. He thinks of Caboose clutching a can of yellow spray paint in the snow, of Simmons pointing a gun to the back of Wash’s head, of Sarge breaking into his surgery on the Fed compound and holding Dr. Grey at scalpel point. Of a Pelican diving into the snow, of a Warthog smashing through a wall. Of Tucker, bending over him in a burning warehouse: _I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to protect you._

Thinks, with a swelling heart, of his _family._

“Thanks,” Wash says, and hopes Tucker doesn’t pick up on the weirdly choked note in his voice. “Just…thanks.”

Judging by the way Tucker’s arms squeeze even tight around his chest, Tucker does. “Anytime, dude.”

* * *

As it turns out, there’s nothing on his schedule for the day except a check-up with Dr. Grey and a mission debriefing with Kimball, Doyle, and Carolina. Wash is reluctant to leave his room, and the fragile peace that’s settled between him and Tucker, but eventually they have to. “You called for help,” Tucker says to him just before he leaves, lingering at Wash’s door.

Wash glances up from where he’s snapping on his armor. “What?”

“At the warehouse. You said you tried to call for Caboose and me, but couldn’t because your radio was busted. You kept your promise.”

“I…” Wash pauses and thinks back to the infirmary, to Tucker’s bright and angry eyes boring into his: _you have to radio me when you need help._ “I guess I did. Yeah. I did.”

Tucker raises an eyebrow. “Maybe you do learn, after all. Well. I’m glad, dude. I’m real glad.”

He leaves. Wash stares the place where he last stood, wondering if Tucker’s right, if he has changed. Thinks of waking up warm after having his brain rattled to pieces once more, and how he’d thought for a brief moment that he’d dropped into a parallel universe.

He wonders, hardly daring to even think it, if that universe is so far away after all.

* * *

The look of surprise on Dr. Grey’s face is brief when Wash appears in the doorway to her office, but Wash caches it nonetheless. “Agent Washington,” she says, setting down her datapad. “Goodness me, you showed up after all.”

“Tucker said you wanted to see me,” Wash says, his voice stiff and formal. “For a check-up.”

“Oh?” she says, getting up to move around her desk. “So you’ve decided to start taking care of yourself?”

Before Wash can come up with an answer, she’s marching out the door to her office. When Wash doesn’t follow, she whirls back around to beckon him. “Well, chop chop! Let’s go have a look at that stubborn, pesky brain of yours.”

Wash follows her into the infirmary and sits on the bed that she gestures him to, reaching up to remove his helmet before he remembers that it isn’t there. Simmons was fixing the busted radio, Tucker had told him, but he’d have it back soon. Wash sure hopes so. This check-up is bad enough; Wash can’t imagine having to attend this mission debriefing with Carolina and _Epsilon_ without a helmet.

“How did you sleep last night?” Dr. Grey asks him as she readies her medical scanner.

“Fine,” Wash says automatically.

Dr. Grey shoots him a nearly murderous look over her scanner. “Agent Washington, I think that I am going to have to ban your use of the word _fine_ in my infirmary. It _is_ rather _useless,_ coming from you.”

“But—” Wash clenches his jaw. “Fi… _okay._ I didn’t sleep all that well, alright? But it was just…bad dreams, and confusion. Stuff I’ve felt before. Nothing to suggest that there’s anything out of the ordinary going on.”

“Hmmm…did Tucker stay with you?”

“Yes,” Wash says after a pause.

“And did that help?”

 _He’s skittered backwards against the wall, chest heaving with giant breaths. There’s someone in front of him, reaching out slowly but deliberately. Not hesitating to touch him. Not_ afraid _to touch him. There are steady hands on either side of his face and Wash clutches at them as if he’s drowning. “Hey, hey. Look at me. What’s my name?”_

 _Wash knows this he knows this, but he can’t quite—he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to remember but there’s a voice calling him back. “No no,_ look _at me. Come on, you know my name.”_

 _He does. He knows this face, these hands, this name, it’s— “Tucker,” he croaks, voice weak and parched but sure, sure of_ this _, if nothing else. “Tucker.”_

“Yes,” Wash says quietly. “Yes, he did.”

Dr. Grey doesn’t say _I told you so,_ and some of Wash’s icy reserve melts away at that. “Did you tell him to stay with me?”

“No. Once we figured out that you hadn’t slept a single wink during your stay in the infirmary—” she eyes him again over the scanner “—I told Tucker that it was imperative you sleep. He asked if he could try before I went…what were his words…jabbing needles into people.’”

Wash mulls this over, thinking. “I…I don’t react well, to…”

“Sedatives,” Dr. Grey supplies. “Yes, Tucker told me.”

Wash blinks in surprise. “He _did?_ ”

She pauses. “I was under the impression that this was something you divulged to him.”

“It is, but…” Wash thinks back. He’s frankly startled that Tucker remembered that small piece of information from so long ago, before he realizes that he shouldn’t be surprised. Tucker has always been perceptive.

Dr. Grey steps behind him, running the scanner over his implants. Wash clenches his fists into the blankets, fighting back a flinch. “Is it just that the sedatives keep you from waking up from a nightmare? Or something more?”

“They…they make them worse,” Wash says. He tries to ignore the warm, unerring buzz from the scanner as she moves it over his head. “They, uh. They sharpen the nightmares. And yeah, make it impossible to wake up. It’s hard to tell what’s real. I think…I think they gave them to me once in Freelancer, too, and I reacted badly but I can’t remember the details.” He pauses. “Carolina would know.”

“You should ask her. It would be _super_ helpful information to have for your file,” Dr. Grey says, then clicks off the scanner and steps out from behind him. “Well, the good news is that everything looks normal in here. A very mild concussion, though you should keep that bandage on for another day or two. Any head pain?”

“No. Just….I was just a little confused, is all.”

“Good.” Dr. Grey sighs, then folds her arms. “Washington, you were _very_ lucky that this wasn’t worse. The concussion could have been far more severe, or damaged your implants. You must be more careful.”

“I will,” Wash agrees without thinking, then sighs when Dr. Grey’s glare sharpens. “Look, you think that I enjoy getting my head scrambled around? I _don’t._ I’ll be as careful as I can, but we’re in the middle of the war, and if you’re going to tell me to stay on the sidelines—”

“I’m not,” Dr. Grey says. “I’m not, because you wouldn’t listen anyway. But I _am_ going to tell you that you need to take better care of yourself. I think it’s time that we come up with a way to help manage your PTSD—”

“I don’t have PTSD,” Wash says, startled, and for the first time, his words appear to have truly shocked Dr. Grey.

“Wash, you have quite a _severe_ case of PTSD. It’s _more_ than understandable, given you’re the things you’ve been through—”

Wash is already shaking his head. “PTSD didn’t make me shoot Donut in cold blood,” he says. “PTSD didn’t make me knock Doc around and drag him all over the desert—or kill South without even—it didn’t make me—don’t offer me an _excuse_ for the things I’ve done.”

“I’m not,” Dr. Grey says quietly. “PTSD isn’t an excuse, Washington. It’s an illness, one that we can help manage. You have access to medicine—”

“I don’t want medicine.”

“But _why?_ ”

“I don’t….don’t…there are _other_ people, people who need that more than me.” He shakes his head, agitated. “There are _kids_ here, in this army, who need that more than I do.”

Dr. Grey still has a rather alarmed look on her face. “Wash, you really—it is _vital_ that you learn to take better care of yourself. You cannot keep going on like this. Refusing treatment for a mental illness because you think it’s something you _deserve_ —because you’re using it to punish yourself, it’s…”

Wash doesn’t answer her, already climbing to a stand, and she sighs. “Just…please, just think about it.”

“I will.”

“Promise me one thing,” she says, and he frowns, surprised. “Promise me that when there’s too much going on in that stubborn skull of yours, you’ll come take it out on me. I can take it. Don’t…don’t take it out on your friends or your lover. Let them _help_ you. Let them try.”

“Tucker’s not my lover,” he says, and the resulting flush makes Dr. Grey’s face light up in a grin.

“Hmmm,” she says. “Well, we’ll see about that.”

He flaps his arms vaguely, but she continues. “Promise me?”

“I’ll…I’ll try,” he says. “I’ll try.”

“Good. I suppose that’s a start.” She gestures towards the door. “Now, off to whatever super-secret meeting you’ve got planned next. Just be careful, alright? I’m getting awfully tired of seeing your face in my infirmary.”

For the first time, he smiles slightly. “That makes two of us.”

* * *

Simmons finds him pacing outside of the door of the meeting room, holding Wash’s helmet in his hands. “The radio’s fixed,” he says abruptly.

“Oh, good,” Wash says gratefully, and reaches out to take it. “Thanks, Simmons…”

He falters as Simmons yanks the helmet out of his reach. “It was really busted up.”

“Yeah,” Wash says slowly. “Yeah, I know. I couldn’t get through to anyone.”

“No, I mean…” Simmons fidgets, turning Wash’s helmet over and over in his hands. “These helmets are made to withstand a bump on the head. You must’ve really cracked it hard for the radio to short-circuit out like that.”

“I…yeah, I did.” Wash pauses, but Simmons says nothing. “Simmons, what—”

“You need to be more careful,” Simmons snaps. “If _you’re_ cracking your head hard enough to break your helmet, what hope do the rest of us have?!”

“Okay, look—”

“It’s _bullshit_ ,” Simmons says, shoving his helmet at him angrily. “It’s all—this whole war thing is _bullshit._ ”

“I know,” Wash says carefully. “Simmons, I _know_ , and I don’t like it any more than you do, but—”

“Sarge didn’t even make fun of you.”

“What?”

“ _Sarge_ ,” Simmons emphasizes. “He couldn’t even come up with a good joke after you guys came back. Not a single rant about Blue Team’s legendary inadequacy!”

Wash has no idea what to say to that. “I…”

“Just—just be careful, alright?” Simmons says, “Sir. Just be more _careful._ ”

Simmons turns on his heel and storms down the hallway, leaving Wash gaping after him.

He’s still standing there, helmet in his hands, when the door opens nearly a minute later. “Agent Washington!” Doyle says. “Goodness, we were wondering when you were going to show up.”

“I...” Wash refocuses. “Sorry, sir.”

“Not to worry,” Doyle says brightly. “Come on, we have much to discuss!”

Wash follows him into the room, eyes flickering over to where Kimball and Carolina are sitting. Their heads are bent together over a series of charts, and it takes a moment for them to glance his way.

Epsilon, however, looks up from where he’s perched on Carolina’s shoulder the moment Wash enters the room. Wash freezes before pointedly jamming his helmet onto his head and looking away towards Kimball. “Sorry I’m late, General.”

Kimball glances up. “That’s quite alright, Agent Washington. How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Wash says quickly. “ _Fine,_ I’m fine.”

He waits until she gestures him into a chair before sitting. “As I’m sure you’ve heard, the mission was a remarkable success, despite your injury.”

Wash nods. “I heard we got all of the ammo we could carry.”

“We did,” Kimball says, her voice bright and excited. “We really did. It’s _incredible_ , what this is going to do for us. I can’t thank you enough.”

“Have we heard from Charon yet?”

“Nothing,” Kimball says. “Although I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.”

Epsilon waves a hand. “Let them whine and cry,” he says. “We’ll just be sitting here on our fucking _mountain of ammo._ ”

“So what did you need from us?” Wash says, gesturing towards himself and Carolina. “Just say the word, and we’ll get it done.”

“Actually, we called you both in here because there’s something we want to talk to you and Carolina about,” Kimball says slowly. To Wash’s astonishment, she exchanges a glance with Doyle. “That last Pelican _barely_ made it out. It might not have made it out at all, in the hands of a pilot less skilled than Private Britton.”

That’s twice now, that Britton has saved his skin. Wash makes a mental note to thank her later. “Apologies, Generals. It won’t happen again.”

“Of course it will,” Kimball says bluntly. “We’re at war, against enemies that want us annihilated, and _no one_ is coming to help us. Of course it’s going to happen again. But it can’t happen while the two of you together.”

Carolina tilts her head at Kimball. “What are you saying?”

“What Miss Kimball is trying to say,” Doyle says, “is that it is absolutely imperative that one of you stay in the Capital at all times.”

“I wasn’t _trying_ to say that, I _was_ saying that,” Kimball snaps, then looks between Carolina and Wash. “I understand that the two of you are probably used to running missions together. But if something were to happen to the both of you, then I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that we wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“But…” Wash frowns. “But _why?_ ”

Everyone exchanges a series of glances, and Wash hastens to explain. “I just mean…you’ve both been fighting this war for years, and now you’re fighting _together_. That was our first mission, and we’re lucky we got out of there. You haven’t seen what Carolina and I can do yet—you don’t _know_ if we’re going to make any difference.”

“You already have made quite a remarkable difference, Agent Washington,” Doyle says. “The training you have provided to both my soldiers and the soldiers of the New Republic is quite frankly astounding.”

“I’ve _never_ seen the cadets work so efficiently,” Kimball says, the smile evident in her voice. “Not to mention that they love you. You inspire them—you _all_ inspire them. That’s no small thing.”

“Yes, but…” Wash shifts. “I’m not trying to deny that Carolina and I are…highly efficient soldiers, but…I _am_ the one who tripped that pressure plate in the warehouse.”

“I should’ve caught that,” Carolina says quickly, speaking directly to Wash for the first time. “It took Epsilon and I weeks to dismantle all the shields inside and outside of that warehouse, and set up dummy ones. We suspect it’s why there were no guards there in the first place—they were incredibly advanced. There was no reason you should’ve been looking for traps, when we had given you the all-clear.”

“I appreciate you saying that,” Wash says stiff. “But I…I still should’ve caught it.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Epsilon says earnestly. “It wasn’t, we…I…”

He falters when Wash turns to look at him slowly. “Yes, _thank you_ , Epsilon.”

Epsilon glances at Carolina. She gives her head a little shake, but Epsilon looks back at Wash again. “Listen—Wash—”

“Don’t,” Wash says. There’s no way, _no way_ that Epsilon is even _considering_ starting this discussion with him, here, _now._ “Just…don’t.”

Epsilon exchanges another look with Carolina, and this time, he flickers away. Wash takes a deep breath. “Okay. You want either Carolina or myself to always remain in Armonia, then that’s what we’ll do. Unless Carolina has anything else to add.”

Carolina shakes her head.

“ _Wonderful_ ,” Doyle says brightly. “Well, we’ll just keep that in mind when scheduling our future missions!”

“What _is_ our next move anyway?” Wash asks, and this time, Kimball exchanges a significant look with Carolina.

“Our next move,” Kimball says, “is to go on the offensive.”

The rest of the meeting is long and involved, with more than a few arguments from Kimball and Doyle. Epsilon appears again halfway through to talk numbers, but doesn’t so much as look at Wash again. Fine by him. It’s late afternoon by the time they all pack up to leave and Wash finds himself alone in the room with Carolina. He lingers at the table, watching her pack up her things. They had been nothing but polite to each other in the meeting, but there is a new tension between them, thick and heavy, and all at once Wash can’t stand it another second.

“I have a question for you,” Wash says suddenly, “about Freelancer.”

Carolina pauses, her hand on the door, and slowly turns to face him. “About Freelancer.”

“Yeah.” Wash clears his throat. “When I was…in recovery, after the _Mother_ crashed, they gave me something to help me sleep. I didn’t react well to it and I think something similar happened in Freelancer. Grey wants the information for my file, since that’s _probably_ not the last time I’ll be in the infirmary. I don’t…I don’t remember it very clearly, and…I thought that you might.”

There’s a long pause before Carolina reaches up and, to Wash’s great shock, removes her helmet. She sets it carefully on the table next to her and turns to look at him. “Triazolam,” she says. “You’re—well, I don’t know if _allergic_ is the right word, but you don’t react well to Triazolam.”

“Triazolam,” Wash echoes, the word tugging on the threads of his memory. “That’s what they gave me after…”

“After that mission where you were interrogated.” Carolina leans against the table, arms folding protectively over her chest. “You—you had some pretty bad nightmares about that, for a while. They gave you Triazolam to help you sleep, and it…it wasn’t good. It made it difficult for you to wake up, and you had pretty severe hallucinations when you did.”

“You stayed with me,” Wash remembers suddenly. He squints at her. “You—in the infirmary. You slept in the hospital bed next to mine for a week.”

She shrugs, shoulders drawn up tight by her ears. “I—it shouldn’t have taken us that long to pinpoint your location. I just needed…I just needed to make sure you were okay.”

_Carolina’s palm, cool on his feverish forehead. Carolina trimming the hair off his ears and the back of his neck. Carolina arguing with his doctors. Carolina’s arms, strong and sure, easing him back into bed._

“But you _did_ pinpoint it,” he says. “You all—you got me out of here.”

Carolina isn’t looking at him now, gaze directed somewhere just beyond his left shoulder. “Yeah. Well.”

Wash reaches up to unclasp the seals on his own helmet and sets it down next to hers, leaning against the table next to her. “Connie tried to tell me,” he says suddenly. “About…about....Alpha. About the Director, and what he was doing.”

Carolina stiffens, her gaze snapping back to his once more. “Wash—you don’t have to—”

“I didn’t listen,” he continues. “I didn’t listen to her. I should have—Connie was smarter than me, so much smarter, and I could’ve helped her but I…I didn’t want to hear it. And I’ll _never_ get to apologize to her. I’ll never get to—to tell South…”

He stops, swallowing hard around the lump that’s risen in his throat. “I killed her. Did you know that?”

“I do,” Carolina says quietly.

Wash nods. “I was so…so angry. _So. Angry._ I didn’t even think about it, when I did it, I just…pulled the trigger.” He closes his eyes. “I’ll never know what would’ve happened if I’d just…just taken a second to talk to her. If I’d _listened_ to Connie or paid more attention to Maine…if…”

He can’t hide the break in his voice this time, and Carolina’s hand finds his on the table. Wash gripes back without thinking, focusing on their intertwined fingers. “I fucked up,” he says quietly. “I fucked up, and they’re gone now, but you’re still here.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she says suddenly, and he glances up, surprised at the fierceness in her voice. “I’m…I’m not going _anywhere_. I’m staying here, on this planet, with…with everyone. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know,” he says simply.

“Wash,” she says, the waver in her voice so slight Wash almost misses it. “I should’ve…”

“Don’t,” he says, shaking his head. “ _Don’t._ You…you had your A.I. ripped out, too. We were all fucked up. _All_ of us.”

“Still,” she says, and it’s enough, that single word.

It’s enough.

The silence that falls between them is lighter than it has been in years, and when Carolina disentangles her hand from his and moves to stand, the gesture is not dismissive. She wanders over to the window and doesn’t speak until her back is solidly to Wash. “You know my name, then.”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah. _Naomi._ It’s a nice name.”

She laughs a little, back still turned to him. “Hmm. You know, I can’t remember the last time I heard that name said out loud.”

Wash can relate to that. “You were cute as a blonde,” he says, “but I think red’s your true color.”

She turns around, an easy smile tugging the corners of her mouth up. “Sarge says the fact that I choose to dye my hair red makes me a true member of Red Team, no matter what color my armor is.”

Wash laughs, and the sound chases the remaining ghosts from the room. “He _would._ ”

Carolina pushes away from the window, picking up her helmet. “I’ll tell Dr. Grey about the Triazolam. I remember pretty well what happened, so I’ll…I’ll let her know. Make sure it’s in your file.”

“Thanks, boss.”

She reaches out to ruffle his hair and he finds himself leaning into it, something inside of him aching at the familiarity of the gesture. “Be careful, alright? I can’t manage these idiots on my own.”

“I will,” he says, “but only if you are.”

“Deal,” she says with a wry smile, and starts towards the door.

She’s at the door when Wash speaks. “David,” he says, and she freezes with her hand on the doorknob. “David Fletcher. That was my name.”

Carolina turns to face him slowly, looking as shocked as Wash has ever seen her. He shrugs. “It’s only fair that you know mine, too.”

“David,” she says, low and quiet. “ _David._ Okay.”

She leaves, and the door closes behind her, the snap of it soft and final like the pages of a long, heavy book.

* * *

Wash doesn’t think it’s quite right to say that Freelancer is over for him. Not when he can slip back into the memories at a moment’s notice, not when he and Epsilon can barely stand to be in the same room as each other most days, not when he has to remind himself in the middle of the night, _still,_ where he is, and who he is.

Yet—

When he wakes up that night, frantic and flailing, whispering reminders to himself— _your name is Agent Washington you are the leader of Blue Team you are on Chorus Epsilon is not here_ —when he thrashes himself out of a nightmare and claws at the sheets, reaching for something to ground himself, something to hold—

There is already someone holding onto him.

The shock of this, more than anything, jolts him fully out of the nightmare. “Tucker,” he says, when he remembers how to speak, remembers who is lying next to him. “What…”

Tucker hadn’t been there when he fell asleep. Wash had made sure of this, had made sure that he’d slipped quietly off to bed before anyone noticed because Tucker deserved some _real_ sleep after the hell Wash had put him through the night prior.

“I heard you,” Tucker says now, his eyes glittering in the dark. “When I got up to get some water. You were yelling.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“Stop,” Tucker says with a yawn. “Stop. Go back to sleep.”

It isn’t until Wash is almost there, drifting in the lines between asleep and awake that he realizes that there was no way that Tucker was getting up to get water, because Tucker never went to bed without at least three full canteens of water by his bedside.

Simmons shoving his helmet at him, Caboose hefting him onto his back. Dr. Grey’s palms slamming up on either side of the doorway, Sarge keeping everyone else away from him on the plane. Tucker’s lips murmuring into his hair as the night swallowed them whole. His name, safe inside of Carolina’s mouth.

_You’ve got oodles and oodles of friends out there, Agent Washington._

Freelancer isn’t over, will never be over, but he is _here_ now. He is _here_ , just him and Carolina, _alive_ , and okay, on Chorus, and…

He made it here.

Tucker shifts against him and Wash closes his eyes.

Despite everything, against all odds—he made it here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big shoutout and hugs to [anneapocalypse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anneapocalypse) for putting together this [RVB/Halo merged timeline](http://anneapocalypse.tumblr.com/post/142599849321/an-rvbhalo-merged-timeline)! She was kind enough to link me when I was desperately searching for the year Wash needed to say when he woke up. Thanks for fighting the good fight, Anne. (pssst Anne is an amazing writer- do yourself a favor and check out her fic if you haven't done so!)
> 
> Fanart! //HEART EYES  
> >>>[Wash in the rain](http://eraleon.tumblr.com/post/147032396078/in-hindsight-i-probably-couldve-actually-spent) by [eraleon](http://eraleon.tumblr.com/)  
> >>>[Wash & Tucker in the meeting room](http://cleverest-url.tumblr.com/post/147116268625/not-my-best-drawing-tbh-but-i-loved-this-scene-so) by [cleverest-url](http://cleverest-url.tumblr.com/)  
> >>>[Sarge & Grey getting busy](http://guiltypleasuretrashblog.tumblr.com/post/147163018781/the-most-important-scene-in-pmgitg-yet) by [guiltypleasuretrashblog](http://guiltypleasuretrashblog.tumblr.com/)  
> >>>[Wash in front of the red wall](http://sparemayonnaise.tumblr.com/post/145427547979/theres-a-lot-of-good-imagery-in-this-fic-by) by [sparemayonnaise](http://sparemayonnaise.tumblr.com/)  
> >>>[Wash and Tucker bein' flirty](http://cleverest-url.tumblr.com/post/147034290250/ok-loo-k-i-know-i-already-made-2-other-arts-for) by [cleverest-url](http://cleverest-url.tumblr.com)  
> >>>[Wash/Epsilon/Tucker after the explosion](http://littlefists.tumblr.com/post/147353991389/ch0colatewings-we-crashed-wash-says-his) by [ch0colatewings](http://ch0colatewings.tumblr.com)  
> >>>[Tucker & Wash and the longest night](http://qrovvbranvven.tumblr.com/post/147597739971/so-tucker-does-not-bother-with-words-that-are-up) by [qrovvbranvven](http://qrovvbranvven.tumblr.com/)
> 
> THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH LIKE HOLLLLLLLLY SHIT o_o I am beyond overwhelmed and grateful for all of this gorgeous art, and these gorgeous comments, AND ALL OF THE LOVE THAT THIS FIC IS RECEIVING. I'm sorry if I forgot to link anyone! I've compiled all of this fic's fanart into a tag on my tumblr [here](http://littlefists.tumblr.com/tagged/pmgitg-art) if, like me, you want to go back and bask in the glory.
> 
> We are definitely over a quarter of the way through - thank you all for sticking with me!


	13. Chapter 13

Tucker watches Wash sigh in his sleep, the pink light of an early morning dawn falling across his face, and thinks, _going backwards doesn’t even begin to cover it._

Going backwards at least implied travel in a straight line. This, however, this _thing_ between him and Wash, was nowhere close to a straight line. It was upside down and inside out and _all over_ the fucking place.

Wash shifts against him, soft hair tickling Tucker’s arm, and Tucker holds his breath, not daring to move an inch. For nearly the entire second half of the night, Wash had _slept_ —fitfully, it was true, but nothing nearly as bad as the previous night’s horrifying, endless dreams. There’s been a fair amount of thrashing and yelling and jolting awake, but they had both actually gotten some real sleep.

Which is how Tucker finds himself waking up for the second morning in a row next to a total hottie he hasn’t even kissed yet.

Backwards. Upside down. Inside out.

Despite Tucker’s best efforts to remain still and silent, Wash stretches himself awake, eyes cracking open slowly to focus on Tucker’s. Tucker watches those eyes flicker from sleep, to confusion, to recognition, to bliss, to guilt—

—back to bliss—

Tucker blinks, slightly startled at the smile stealing over Wash’s face. “Morning. _Tucker,_ ” he clarifies.

“Morning,” Tucker says cautiously, and he has to stop himself from leaning down and planting an instinctive kiss right on Wash’s forehead. Christ, they’re like an old married couple. “You feeling okay?”

Wash nods. “Washington, Chorus, 2556,” he mutters, almost to himself.

“Yeah. You got it, dude,” Tucker says, and this time he can’t prevent himself from running a hand through Wash’s hair.

Wash’s eyes flick over to his, smiling. “Sometimes I…remember quickly. _Sometimes_.”

After a few more moments of silence during which Wash does not pull away or brush off Tucker’s affectionate strokess to his hair, Wash reaches an arm across Tucker to fiddle with the clock on his nightstand.

“Zero six hundred,” he says, falling back. “Hmm. Training in thirty minutes.”

“Yeah,” Tucker says intelligently. He’s completely baffled by how at ease Wash seems. “Yeah. Are you, uh. Are you cleared to do any training?”

Wash turns to look at him with a small, serious smile. “Yeah. I’m clear. All clear.”

There’s something about the way he says it, something about the soft yet sure way the words leave his tongue, that lifts the tension from the previous few days right out of Tucker’s body. “Good,” he says. “That’s good.”

He’s unable to manage anything more substantial than that, because he’s _seriously_ distracted by Wash’s ease and Wash’s smile and Wash’s body and _shit_ , Grif was right, he’s fucked, he’s so incredibly _beyond_ fucked.

Wash yawns and stretches. Tucker jolts because he’s _absolutely_ imagining the way Wash’s knee slides up the inside of his thigh—they’re just tangled together, that’s all—still sluggish and sleepy so it’s not intentional, not at all, but Tucker finds himself arching into the movement nonetheless.

With a final stretch—higher this time, that was _definitely higher_ —Wash sits up and looks down at him. “Thanks,” he says. It’s, the grave, serious note that Tucker was waiting for, but it doesn’t carry Wash away from him the way he expected it to. Wash is still here, still leaning over him, still _smiling_. “Thanks. For everything.”

“You got it, dude,” Tucker says. “Anytime. Just. Anytime you want to, you _know,_ cuddle, I’m right here.”

 _Anytime you want to cuddle._ Jesus _Christ,_ he sounds like a thirteen-year-old who’d just gotten his first kiss. He is _done._ He is ruined and it’s entirely Wash’s fault, Wash and his big blue eyes and his soft hair and his stupid abs. _Ruined_. He’ll never be able to bust out anything except sappy one-liners again.

Backwards. It’s all backwards. They’re _so backwards._ He reaches out to Wash anyway. “You sure you’re okay?”

Wash grins and laughs a little—a real laugh, not bitter or sarcastic or hysterical, but a real Wash laugh, bright and bursting and just the right amount of awkward. “Uh. _Yeah._ Yeah, I think I am. For now, at least.”

He brushes his fingers up and down Tucker’s arm. The gesture is innocent and sweet and yet it hits Tucker like a bolt of lightning, heat pooling in his gut. Wash is smiling at him, head tilted and expression soft and sleepy and a touch uncertain, and Tucker wants nothing more than to pull Wash right back down on top of him and—

He’s half-reaching to do just that before he snaps his hands back. Wash just went through a whole _fuck_ ton of bullshit. For all Tucker knows Wash isn’t fully aware of where he is or what their relationship is, and Tucker sure as shit doesn’t know how to clarify that. What even _are_ they? Tucker has to be—has to be _sensitive_ or some shit. The last thing, the absolute _last thing_ he wants is to act on his raging morning hormones and do something that Wash is later going to regret, no matter what his face says now.

That, and the inevitable smug lecture from _Epsilon_ if Tucker fucks this up now—

Tucker climbs abruptly to his feet, throwing back the covers. No. He won’t fuck this up. He _won’t._ He is going to do this shit right if it fucking kills him. He will not let Church have the last laugh.

He will not sully this shining piece of trust Wash has given him.

“Should get breakfast,” Tucker mutters, shimmying into his Kevlar suit. It takes everything inside of him not to make a seductive production out of it, so he just hurries the process up and begins slamming on his armor, codpiece first. _Like a chastity belt,_ Tucker thinks wildly, and his dick sullenly agrees. By the time he allows himself a glimpse of Wash’s face, he’s got half his armor on.

Wash’s face makes him falter only slightly. Wash has also begun the laborious process of zipping up his suit and strapping on his armor, but he’s watching Tucker carefully. There’s something sharp and calculating in his eyes, some sort of confusion and—disappointment?

 _No_. Tucker’s imagining that. He wrenches his gaze away from Wash and jams his helmet on before he can do something stupid like start kissing Wash. He’s all the way at the door when he pauses, turns back to Wash with a lifted chin.

“I like sleeping with you,” he mumbles, grateful that the helmet is hiding the darkening of his cheeks. He gives himself a mental slap; rallies. Tucker does not _mumble_. “Bet I’d like it in more ways than one. _Boooooowhickabowow._ ”

He puffs up his chest and does his best about-face, strutting out of the room and feeling faintly proud of himself, blue balls or not. “Not gonna fuck it up,” he mutters through clenched teeth as he plows determinedly through the hallways. “Keep fucking walking. Do not think of Wash half-naked back there. Do not.”

He does. He doesn’t.

He _soooo_ does.

_I am so fucked._

* * *

By the time Tucker has marched himself right on out to the make-shift track, his boner has wilted in disappointment. He’s the first one there, so he stretches and does a bit of jogging. One by one, the rest of the sim troopers and Federalist captains wander over.

It’s a weird morning. Everyone keeps breaking off into twos and threes, whispering and arguing and—Tucker is sure of it— _staring_ at him. They’re supposed to be doing a conditioning circuit, moving from obstacle to obstacle to work on pull-ups or push-ups or sprints or something equally as annoying, but no one seems to be paying much attention to the order except Simmons.

“No—Ali—you’re supposed to go to the rope climbing station next, not…”

Ali does not, in fact, go over to the rope climbing station. He continues to whisper with Grif over at the weight rack, both of them only half-heartedly going through the motions. Grif has been doing bicep curls with the same five-pound weight for nearly two minutes now.

Tucker is starting to get seriously paranoid when Caboose ends up at same station as Tucker to do pull-ups. Tucker opens his mouth to order Caboose to the proper station when he realizes that Caboose _is_ at the proper station—is the _only_ person at the proper station. Normally, Caboose is the one fucking up the order and it’s _this_ more than anything that sets alarm bells off in Tucker’s head.

“Good morning, Tucker,” Caboose says serenely, then leaps up to grab the pull-up bar and starts knocking them out.

Tucker regards him suspiciously before jumping up to grab the bar as well. “Good morning, Caboose.”

“And how are you this morning?”

There’s something up. There’s _definitely_ something up. “Okay, out with it,” Tucker wheezes between pull-ups. “Why are you all acting so weird?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Caboose says. His pacing hasn’t slowed in the slightest.

“Really.”

“Really!"

Tucker eyes him for another moment before continuing his pull-ups.

“It’s just, um.”

“Caboose, Jesus, _what?_ ”

“See, it’s just that there are some people that have a question, but they are afraid to ask it, and I am not afraid to ask it because you are not as scary as you think you are, so. Here I am.”

“Caboose, _if you don’t tell me what the fuck is going on_ then I will show you scary—”

“Have you given Wash a kiss yet?”

Tucker falls off the pull-up bar and lands, sputtering, on the ground. “Have I _what?_ ”

Caboose just keeps on fucking doing pull-ups. “Have you _kissed_ him, Tucker?” he asks in the most condescending voice Tucker’s ever heard him manage. “It is a thing that two people do when—”

No. _No._ He is not about to get sex advice from _Caboose._ Surely the universe does not hate him that much. “ _I know what kissing is!_ What I don’t know is why the fuck you’re asking me this question!”

Caboose finally finishes his pull-ups and jumps down next to Tucker. “Well, see, there are some people who might want to know the answer to that question because some people might have made guesses on when you would kiss and some people have bet money and—”

Tucker whirls around to shoot a murderous glare at Grif, who is cranking out enthusiastic push-ups. Everyone, in fact, has adopted a sudden laser-focused on their exercises.

“—and because Freckles, Shake is a very good story that I would like to know the ending to, and because you spent the last two nights with him and—”

“Jesus, Caboose, keep your voice down…” Tucker shoots another glance around the track. “Does everyone know that I spent the last two nights in his room?”

“Yes.”

“How?!”

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah, I’ll _bet_ you don’t….you’re probably the one who fucking _told_ everyone…”

When Caboose continues to stare at him expectantly, Tucker sighs, irritated. “No. Okay? No. We haven’t…kissed.”

“Oh,” Caboose says. “Um. Why?”

“Are you serious right now?!”

“It’s just that, um. Wash wants to kiss you, and you want to kiss him, so I don’t understand why you are making me lose all of this money.”

“I don’t—what money—you’re betting—” Tucker suffers through a painful internal struggle before saying, “How do you know Wash wants to kiss me too?”

Caboose deigns him with a pitying sigh. “Well, because when two people love each other sometimes they like to kiss, and—”

“Oh, my god. I _cannot_ believe we’re having this conversation.”

“Tucker.” Caboose claps a hand down onto his shoulder. “I think that it would be very nice if Wash were to get lots of hugs and kisses. I give him lots of hugs, the _best_ hugs, better hugs than _you_ give, but he is my brother and it would not feel right if I kissed him on the mouth. But y _ou_ can kiss him on the mouth. I think he would like that. I think he would like that very much.”

For nearly a full minute, Tucker struggles in silence and tries to come to terms with the fact that _Caboose_ just told him to make a move. “Okay,” he says finally, because what else is there? “Okay. Uh. Thanks, Caboose. I’ll keep that in mind. Now please leave me the fuck alone.”

“Good,” Caboose says happily, and he charges off to the next station, leaving Tucker to stare at the place where he’d last stood and tries to contemplate just when his life got turned so upside down.

* * *

Tucker storms to Grif’s room later night, after a long day during which no less than three cadets made passive aggressive comments that he’s sure are directed towards his sex life with Wash, or regrettable lack thereof. He throws the door to Grif’s room open with a bang, to reveal Grif and Simmons lounging on the bed and watching something that looks boring and nerdy. He jabs a finger in Grif’s direction. “ _You_. I know this is your fault.”

Grif doesn’t even look up. “Probably.”

“How big is this…this _betting_ pool you started?! Fucking _Caboose_ …” Tucker flaps his arms, still unable to fully believe what had happened. “Caboose came up to me today and fucking told me off for not making a move on Wash yet. I mean, what the fuck!”

“Yeah, and from what I understand, you _didn’t_.” Grif side-eyes him. “Unless you were lying?”

“I…no. I wasn’t lying. But that’s not the point! The point is—”

Grif groans, dropping his head back down on his arm. “Dude. I cannot believe you. Do you know how much money I could’ve won if you hadn’t been such a sissy la-la?” He throws a hand up into the air, ticking off his fingers. “Five weeks to the _day_ after the armies merge. Bonus points if you guess the circumstances and the position. I had my money on you sucking his dick—because thanks for not shutting up about that, by the way—after some bullshit tragic mission that cuts it way too close.”

“Oooookay,” Simmons says nervously. “Uhhh, I think I’m gonna go now.”

Grif’s hand shoots out faster than Tucker would’ve thought possible and snags the back of Simmons’ shirt. “Oh no you don’t. Do _not_ leave me alone in here with him.” Grif slants his eyes towards Tucker once more. “ _Simmons_ here is still in the running. He’s betting that you two don’t get it on until _after_ the war. And that _Wash_ is the one to make the move. At _this_ fucking rate—”

“Okay, okay!” Tucker slumps into Grif’s room and leans against the wall, sliding to the floor. “I get it. Jesus Christ, doesn’t anyone on this planet have anything better to do? I mean, how can I get in on the wager of when you two will finally fuck?”

“Palomo is in charge of that one,” Grif says without even blinking, as Simmons turns bright red and starts making indignant noises. “Although you’ll _notice_ that Simmons and I aren’t feeling each other up on the training room floor.”

“We aren’t—we weren’t—that was _one time!_ ”

Grif shrugs. “Word gets around, Tucker.”

“Whatever.” Tucker hesitates before plowing on, gaze fixed determinedly on the floor. “Look, you weren’t _there,_ okay? On the mission. It fucking sucked. We were…he was…I just want to make sure he’s _okay_ before I like, jump his bones.”

“Oh _wow_ ,” a voice breathes from the doorway, and they all turn to see Donut leaning against the frame with a dreamy look on his face. “Oh, _Tucker._ You love him.”

“O- _ho_ , my god!” Tucker gets his feet underneath him and is halfway to a stand when he notices that Donut is clutching several bottles of table wine in his arms. “Those had better be for me or I am so _noping_ the fuck out of this conversation.”

“Oh, calm down.” Donut flounces into the in the room and sits next to Tucker. Grif snags a bottle out of his arms as he passes. “Don’t listen to Grif. I think it’s romantic that you waited. It’s just like a movie!”

Tucker unscrews one of the bottles of wine—a twist top, thank Christ—and takes a healthy swig. “Blagh—where did you get this?”

“Private Jensen brewed it!” Donut says, taking a dainty sip.

“In what, the toilet?”

“In a car engine.”

“Lovely,” Tucker mutters, but takes another sip anyway. “Okay, _look_ —the situation is complicated—I’m just waiting for the right moment here.”

“Blue Team Problems,” Grif and Simmons say in unison.

Tucker throws up his arms and sloshes enough wine over the side of the bottle that Donut squeaks. He sets it down carefully on the floor and resumes glaring. “Blue Team Problems, Blue Team Problems—what about Red Team _Gossip?_ Christ, you’re all like a bunch of housewives yapping away about your soaps—”

“Blasphemy! M’soaps are way more interesting than you two knuckle heads dancing around each other like it’s junior prom night and you both forgot the box condoms!” Tucker closes his eyes briefly in horror as Sarge makes his way into the room, gesturing towards Donut for a bottle. “Now, listen. The two of you—thanks, son—the two of you need to shape up right quick!”

“Oh that’s rich, relationship advice coming from—” Tucker pauses, suddenly remembering Dr. Grey’s absentminded kiss to the side of Sarge’s helmet. “Wait _. Waaaaaaait._ You _are_ getting some tail, aren’t you?”

It’s worth it when Grif startles so badly that he almost face-plants off the bed. _“What?”_

“You don’t _know_ about this?” Donut says gleefully, sitting up straighter. “Ohhhh my god. You don’t—oh, _Grif!_ You should’ve _seen_ them at the Federalist base. Sarge and Emily just couldn’t keep their _eyes_ off of each other”

“Emily? _Emily?_ You’re banging Dr. Grey?” He turns, sputtering, to Simmons. “Did you know about this?”

“Well, they haven’t exactly been subtle, Grif.” Simmons shudders. “ _Unfortunately_.”

“Love is a beautiful thing, Simmons!” Sarge says airly, “It ain’t meant to be boxed up tight!”

“Ha,” Tucker says triumphantly. “Not so fun to talk about _his_ sex life, now is it?”

Grif is still staring slack-jawed at Sarge. “I don’t—how did this even--?”

“Ohhh, okay, so…” Donut takes another sip of wine before folding his hands in his lap. “It all started when we were separated! Now, as you know when we first got there we didn’t know what to think, not to mention the fact that we were all in pretty bad shape! Dr. Grey had to—”

Grif groans. “Donut, please. Spare me the details.”

“Shut up, Grif. Just because you wouldn’t know what to do with that pecker of yours if it came with a series of written instructions and a how-to video doesn’t mean the rest of us should suffer!” Sarge takes a swig to the sound of Grif cursing, and hands the wine bottle back to Donut. He turns a beady eye towards Tucker. “Now, get a move on, will you? Otherwise the good doctor and I might have to say yes to the threesome Agent Washington propositioned as general act of charity!”

Tucker isn’t the only one who sprays out the wine he’d just chugged: Grif manages to dose Simmons in a rather impressive spray of wine, and as Simmons shrieks and starts hopping around, he knocks their bottle of wine onto the floor.

The night deteriorates rapidly after that. Tucker can’t get another word out of Sarge about this supposed threesome proposition and, in the end, he’s only half-convinced that Sarge is fucking with him. Patil and Ali wander past their room and soon enough, they’re drinking with them as well, and before Tucker knows it they’re half drunk and playing some sort of ridiculous drinking game that involves three decks of cards and the empty wine bottles.

“It won’t just be sex,” Tucker says suddenly to Donut an hour later, when they are both warm and heavy from the wine, and he is reasonably sure that no one is listening to them.

Donut looks at him. “What?”

“With Wash.” Tucker swallows hard. “It won’t….it won’t just be sex, if we fuck now.”

“It was never going to be just sex, Tucker. Not with you two.” Tucker’s more than a little tipsy, so he’s sure he’s imagining the misty look in Donut’s eyes. _Pretty_ sure. “Not after Freckles, Shake.”

Tucker rolls his eyes, but his heart isn’t in it. “Maybe. But _now_ …now there’s too much…it’ll be…we’ll be…”

“Boyfriends?” Donut supplies helpfully.

Tucker groans. “No! Not—well. _Maybe._ I don’t know! Fuck!”

Donut smiles at him kindly. “It isn’t like you to overthink something like this. What happened to that strapping young buck from the desert? Why, you were ready for just about _anything!_ ”

“I know! I know!” Tucker scrubs his hands over his face, agitated. “It’s just—it’s _Wash_ , ya know?”

Donut nods, even though Tucker isn’t making any sense whatsoever.  “I don’t think you ever wanted it to be just sex.”

Tucker nods, then shakes his head. “Yeah. I mean _no_. I mean— _fuck_ , I’ve had too much wine.” He regroups. “You’re…fuck. I think you’re right. I just—I just don’t want to fuck this up. I don’t….I don’t wanna hurt him more than he’s already been hurt.”

It’s quite possibly one of the most honest things he’s ever said, and it leaves him feeling both empty and full all at once. “He deserves something good,” Tucker continues. “I could be that something good.”

He’d said those words to Church only a few weeks ago, but it seems like lifetimes ago. He had meant it, at the time, but now Tucker realizes he didn’t understand the extent of his words. Something _good_ , he realizes now, is more than just a good fuck or cuddle or even a good massage. It’s holding their helmet in the rain. It’s holding someone as tight as you can, to keep them from shaking apart in your arms.

“I _want_ to be that something good.”

Not long after that, Kimball is hauling them all out into the hallway one by one. Tucker barely hears her lecture—he’s fairly certain that Grif has fallen asleep standing up—and it takes him a while to stumble back into his hallway. He must be drunker than he thought, because after what he thought was only a minute or fumbling with his door, Wash opens it and Tucker almost falls right in.

Tucker blinks at him. “Damn, Wash. Fancy finding you in my bed. What a nice surprise.”

He waggles his eyebrows at Wash before realizing that he’s supposed to be wooing him, and drunken come-ons are surely not woo-worthy. Before he can backtrack and salvage the situation, Wash is squinting at him.

“Are you drunk?”

“Yes,” Tucker says, and grins when it gets a laugh out of Wash.

“Well, you get points for honestly,” he takes Tucker by the shoulders, steering him gently down the hall. “This is _my_ room. Yours is this way.”

“Oh,” Tucker says, and stares at his own door for so long that Wash sighs and reaches around him to unlock it.

“Do I even want to know where you got the alcohol you were drinking?” Wash asks, as he steers Tucker into his room and maneuvers him to the bed.

Tucker closes his eyes against the spinning of the room. “Ummmm,” he says. “I think that’s a secret.”

“Really.” Wash’s voice is amused as he bends down to tug off Tucker’s boots.

Tucker resists the urge to tell him to feel free to continue undressing him. “Yeah. Really.”

He keeps his eyes closed and listens to Wash rustle around the room, and doesn’t open them until he feels Wash slip something over his head. Tucker blinks up, confused, and it takes him a moment to realize that Wash has located his favorite thick headband and is smoothing his dreads away from his face.

“Dude,” he mutters, unexpectedly touched. He catches Wash’s wrist, fingers pressing against the pulse point. “Thanks.”

Wash’s darkening cheeks are visible even in the dim light. “It’s the least I can do,” he says, tugging his hand gently away from Tucker’s grip to maneuver his legs onto the cot.

As he pushes Tucker’s shoulders down, Tucker can see that Wash has stacked his canteens neatly on his bedside crate, and— “did you change my _pillowcase_ , too?!”

Wash hesitates. “Should I not have?”

“No, dude. It’s great. Thanks,” he says again, because he’s drunk and sleepy and he can’t quite find the words for how it makes him feel that Wash knows his bedtime haircare routine other than, _I am going to fuck you_ so hard _, just wait._

Tucker feels Wash’s hand stroke down his arm before the mattress lifts slightly, and by the time he opens his eyes to tell Wash to stay, he is already gone.

* * *

Quite frankly, Tucker thinks he deserves a medal for all of the self-control he shows over the next week. He doesn’t try to feel Wash up _once_ : not during knife training, not during the lazy afternoon nap they take when Tucker barges crankily into his room in between meetings, not during another long night when Wash’s yells draw Tucker to his room. _Nothing,_ save for lingering touches to skin and slow brushes through hair.  This is, admittedly, made a little easier when Wash is called out on a mission that takes up the majority of his days and some of his nights, but still. Tucker is perfectly well-behaved when they are together, determined to do this right, convinced that Wash should be the one to make the next move.

He’s also pretty goddamn proud of himself for not blowing up at Epsilon. Granted, the two of them haven’t said a single word to each other, and Tucker may or may not find reasons to leave the room whenever Carolina enters it, but still. He is calm. He is rational. He is the absolutely _pinnacle_ of good manners and high morals. He is—

_“Are you fucking kidding me?”_

Half the mess hall falls silent and glances over at him, but Tucker lowers his voice only marginally. He turns to Grif, agitated, and waves the mission dossier he’s just received under his nose. “Did you read this? _Did_ you?”

“ _Isssurlyfoisullshi,_ ” Grif mumbles through a mouthful of oatmeal, not even bothering to glance at Tucker’s datapad.

“We’re going on a supply run,” Tucker says, glancing back to the roster. “You, me, Benson, Silver, Volleyball, and Agent _Carolina_.”

Grif takes his time swallowing his oatmeal before casting a dull, bleary-eyed look towards Tucker. “So?”

“So? _So?_ I can’t—this isn’t— _who came up with this roster?_ ”

“I don’t know, probably Carolina. Looks like she’s team leader—uh, where are you going?”

Tucker swings his legs over the bench and stalks off, ignoring Grif’s half-hearted calls. “Bullshit,” he mutters as he half-runs through the base. “Such _bullshit._ ”

He locates Carolina in the first training room he tries. She’s out of her armor—one of the few times he’s seen her completely out of it, Tucker notes absently—and beating the living Christ out of a heavy bag. Epsilon is sitting crossed-legged on the helmet next to her, chattering away, but falters as Tucker stomps in. Tucker rips off his own helmet as well, sets it down on the bench with a slam, and holds the datapad out to Carolina. “ _Explain._ ”

Carolina pauses only briefly in her exercise to glance at the datapad. “Explain what, Captain Tucker?”

“Explain…this. This roster. Did _you_ come up with this?”

“Yes.”

He stares at her, waiting for an explanation that never comes. “Uh, you realize that _my name_ is on this roster, right?”

“Funnily enough, I did,” she snaps.

“And you think that’s a good idea? For _me_ to come on this supply run?”

She throws a confused look his way. “I wouldn’t have selected you if I didn’t think it was a good idea. There aren’t many fighters as skilled in close quarters combat as you, and we could use someone on the squad like that.”

Tucker ignores the small flicker of pride her words bring. “That’s not what I meant, and you _know_ it.”

“Tucker—”

“I can’t work with you.”

Carolina finally stops trying to beat the bag into submission. “What?”

“On missions and stuff. I can’t work with you.”

“Tucker…” Carolina turns to face him fully, snagging a nearby towel and wiping at her forehead. “Look. I know you’re upset about what happened at the warehouse with Wash.”

“That’s not it!” Tucker considers. “I mean, I am, I’m really fucking _pissed off_ about it, actually, but that’s not what this is about. This is about you _not listening to me._ ”

To Tucker’s exasperation, Carolina appears truly baffled. “I listen.”

“No, you _don’t!_ You completely ignored _everything_ that I said at the warehouse! I told you to watch the perimeter. I told you Caboose had shit handled. I told you not to come because Wash was fucking disoriented, and you ignored _all of it!_ ” Tucker his head. “I can’t—I can’t fucking work with someone who doesn’t _trust_ me.”

There’s a flash of something that might almost be hurt across Carolina’s face, if she were the kind of person to show it. “I trust you.”

Tucker snorts. “You’ve got a funny way of showing it.”

“ _Look_ —it was a tense situation—”

“Yeah, like _every_ situation we’ve been in since landing on this planet!” Tucker blows out a breath between his teeth. “I had that shit under control _. I had it under control_.”

“Would you have listened to me?”

Tucker falters. “What?

“If our positions had been reversed. If I had gotten to Wash first, and told you to stay where you are. Would you have listened?”

“I…” Tucker blows out a frustrated breath. “That’s—don’t change the subject.”

“That’s what I _thought_ ,” Carolina says.

“You—still. You could’ve fucked up everything,” Tucker says.

“Alright, alright,” Epsilon snaps. Tucker was wondering when he was going to start running his mouth, “You’ve made your point—”

“Shut the fuck up, Church,” Tucker says fiercely, a black, choking anger gripping tight and sudden in his chest. “I wasn’t _talking_ to _you_.”

“Epsilon, it’s fine,” Carolina says, when Epsilon shows every sign of continuing to argue. “Tucker’s right.”

“Don’t fucking—wait, I am?”

“Yes.” Carolina wipes the towel over her face again before looking Tucker directly in the eye. “It would have been more efficient for Epsilon and I to continue patrolling the perimeter. I just—Charon’s forces were close. So close to being on us, and I thought if I could get everyone to move a little faster, then…”

She trails off, and Tucker forces himself to stay quiet and let her continue. When she does, her words are not what he was expecting.

“You know.”

“What, about Freelancer?” Tucker juts his chin out. “Yeah. I know. What about it?”

“Then you know Wash and I have lost a team before.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I’m…” Carolina twists her hands together, fidgeting in a way that is entirely unlike her. “I’m just trying to make sure we don’t lose another one.”

It’s the quiet, hurt way in which she says it that causes Tucker to falter. “God, you guys are so _dramatic,_ ” he mutters. “You aren’t going to _lose_ us.”

She doesn’t smile. “There’s a knife scar on your torso that suggests otherwise.”

Tucker’s hand drifts towards his gut before he can stop it. “Don’t see how you not trusting us is gonna help prevent that shit from happening again.”

“I know.” Carolina gestures at the datapad in Tucker’s hand. “But _that_ will. Us….pushing forward. Trying again.” She shrugs, honest and uncertain. “It’s all we can do.”

Tucker stares at the roster for another moment, at their names next to each other— _Lavernius Tucker, Agent Carolina—_ before snapping it shut and fastening it back to the pouch on his leg. “I wasn’t trying to be a hero,” he says abruptly.

She frowns at him, taking a seat on the bench next to his helmet. “What?”

“At the warehouse.” With nothing to occupy his hands, Tucker swings them awkwardly at his sides before clenching them into fists. “When I told you not to come. I wasn’t trying to be a hero. I didn’t…I didn’t know exactly what was going on, but I knew Wash was disoriented, and I knew seeing you would make it worse. He thought—he thought I _was_ you, at first. It was the armor color.”

“I wasn’t trying to be a hero,” he emphasizes again when she gives no response.

“I know,” she says with a sigh. “I know that.”

“Why didn’t you go back for him?” Tucker asks, and even as the words leave his mouth, he knows he has to right to them. “I just…I don’t understand. I don’t understand how you all just…just left him.”

“Neither do I,” says Carolina after a while.

Tucker wants to push—to ask her again, why, to ask for specific details, but he doesn’t. He simply lets the silence sit between them until he can’t stand it another second.

“He’s okay, you know,” Tucker says suddenly. “Wash. He’s—I mean he’s _not,_ but—he’s okay.”

Even as Carolina gives him a small smile, Epsilon snorts loudly from his perch on her helmet. “All thanks to _you,_ I’m sure.”

 _Ignore him,_ Tucker tells himself firmly, the same way he’s been doing for the past week. _Ignore him, ignore him, ignore him._

But Epsilon continues, and as his words start a dull buzz in Tucker’s head he thinks, _time to go_. “ _Wasn’t trying to be a hero_ my ass. Thank god you were there to— _don’t you walk away from me, Tucker!_ ”

Tucker does anyway, stalking towards the door as fast as he can. He’s almost there when Epsilon voice rings out again, sharp and angry. “Yeah go on, act all fucking high and mighty. Swooping in like a goddamn hero all for the chance to get your _dick wet_.”

Tucker whirls back around so fast that something cricks in his neck. “ _What the fuck did you just say?!_ ”

“I _said,_ ” Epsilon snaps, quivering from his perch on Carolina’s helmet, “that you wouldn’t give two flying _fucks_ about whether or not Wash was _okay_ if you weren’t trying to _screw_ him!”

“You—” Tucker starts towards Epsilon before he remembers that he’s a hologram and Tucker can’t actually knock his lights out. “Take. That. _Back_.”

Carolina’s half-rising from her seat on the bench. “Epsilon, don’t—”

It’s too late. Epsilon zooms up and over so that he’s at Tucker’s eye line, less than two feet away. “No. I won’t take back what’s true.”

“Not that it’s any of your _business_ ,” Tucker grits out, “But Wash and I haven’t done shit yet. Jesus, Church! Like I’m gonna try to fuck him two seconds after he wakes up not even knowing his own name!”

Church snorts. “Oh, please. Like you haven’t pulled off more elaborate schemes than this to get laid in the past. The shit you used to pull in the canyon—”

_“YOU WEREN’T IN THE CANYON!”_

A dam Tucker didn’t even realize he was holding back bursts inside his chest, and his yell is so loud that Carolina jumps to her feet, trying to insert herself in between the two of them. “Alright, that’s enough—”

“No. _No!_ ” Tucker levels a glare at Epsilon, dizzy and shaken from the unexpected fury this truth brings. “ _You_ weren’t in the canyon! _Alpha_ was in the canyon, and you’re not him! Don’t act like—don’t act like you fucking know me when you don’t. You _don’t!_ If you think I would—if you think I would fucking _do that_ to Wash, then you don’t know shit! What the fuck, I thought we were past this, I thought—”

“I’ve been in your head, Tucker,” Epsilon spits, the hurt just audible under layers of anger. “Don’t pretend you’re some fucking model _lover_ who—”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Tucker says. He can barely hear his own words over the blood thundering in his ears. “You have been in my head. You know all about that, don’t you? Being in people’s _heads._ ”

“Tucker,” Carolina says, “Just—”

Tucker ignores her in favor of stepping even closer to Epsilon. “I can’t believe you had the balls to lecture me on not taking advantage of Wash when you’re the one who _fucked up his head_ in the first place.”

He can tell he’s finally hit a nerve when Carolina takes a step back, her palm pressing hard against her temple. “Church, _relax._ ”

Tucker puts a steadying hand on her elbow before whipping back to Church, who has swelled in size and is flickering, _purplebluepurpleblue._ “Can’t even fucking control yourself enough not to hurt the person you’re implanted in—”

“He isn’t hurting me,” Carolina says firmly, shaking off his hand. “He’s just—both of you need to _stand down._ Now!”

Any other time, her tone would have him faltering, but Tucker is too furious to care. “Tell me, Epsilon, just how fucked up do you have to be to try to kill yourself in someone’s head?”

Tucker can tell by the way that Epsilon freezes that he didn’t think Tucker’s knowledge stretched quite that far. His hesitation is only momentary, however. “You have _no_ idea,” he says, his voice a hard whisper. “You think you do, but you don’t. You _don’t_.”

“Okay.” Tucker straightens, squaring his shoulders and setting his jaw. “Fucking show me, then.”

They all freeze until Epsilon lets out a bark of laughter. “You can’t be serious.”

“Do I look like I’m fucking joking?”

“Yeah, okay. Like I’m gonna give Wash another reason to fucking hate me.”

“Just—” Tucker takes a centering breath, although it does little to actually calm him. “Fucking come on! Show me what was so awful that you had to fuck up his head so goddamn badly, fucking _do_ it!”

Silence. Carolina has frozen, one hand on Tucker’s shoulder, the other hovering around Epsilon like a child would cup a firefly. “Okay,” she says firmly. “I think that’s enough.”

“That’s what I thought,” Tucker says, his eyes still pinning Epsilon with a glare. “That’s what I _fucking_ thought—you’re a coward, you’re just a _coward_. It makes sense now, though, you getting all fucking concerned about me hurting him. Seems like you’re the rank expert on _that_.”

In the space between two heartbeats, Epsilon is there, a buzzing, burning thing inside his skull. Tucker dimly hears Carolina call, “Epsilon, no!” before he is swallowed up in an angry haze of memory.

_They are hurting they are dying and it is all his fault, Carolina’s eyes blank and unseeing, Connie’s head severed from her body. There is nowhere to run there is nowhere to hide; his house is in burning shambles and as he is ripped from it, his body leaves bloody streaks across the floor. The horror and pain are all-consuming, and suddenly there is a mind mixed with his, panic and fear and confusion, and Beta is being torn from his hands he is watching the dog run through the yard he is kissing his wife beneath the canopy there is too much it’s too much everything hurts everything is red—_

_\--but when the smoke clears there is something steady there too, something calming. Calm is Wash’s river-blue eyes; calm is Wash’s open palm, outstretched to him. Calm is that moment in the air, twisting and spiraling until even Epsilon can’t tell where one of them ends and the other begins. Epsilon’s brothers were ripped away from him one by one, but here is another—_

_They are in a storm, a raging, howling storm, and the calm is swept away in the blink of an eye. They are in a cold metal room they are trapped like animals they should run but they cannot, and the way Wash screams as Epsilon rips them both right down the middle will never leave him will never leave him will—_

Tucker comes to with his head pressed into the floor, gagging. He presses his hands over the back of his neck, expecting it to hurt, but there is no pain. There is only the horror of the brief glimpses he has just seen.

Carolina’s hand is firm and steady on his shoulder, gripping in the gaps between his armor. Epsilon is a blue blur in his peripheral, and he says nothing, just pulses in the center of his skull, a knot of anger and grief and a black envy.

Tucker glances up at that, lifting his head off the floor to stare at Epsilon. Epsilon pulls a memory forward, of a sparring session in the training room, a moment in the air where there were no walls between him and Wash.

A memory of something that, no matter how hard they might try to regain it, was gone forever.

 _< You have his trust,>_ Epsilon says, voice a heavy whisper in Tucker’s head. _< You have what I’ll never have again.>_

Epsilon says nothing more, but he doesn’t have to. Tucker can feel every inch of his grief, his longing, his fury at himself and what was done to them both. When he leaves Tucker’s head, it is a slow, sighing thing. Tucker feels numb as Carolina tugs him to his feet.

“You two—” she pauses as Epsilon re-implants into her, and glances between the two of them. “Tucker. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Tucker says, then glances at Epsilon. “I—you should tell him. For fuck’s _sake_ , Epsilon. Just tell him that you’re _sorry._ You owe him that.”

Epsilon says nothing, only shrugs: a hopeless, helpless lift and fall of his shoulders. Tucker holds his gaze for a moment longer before scooping up his helmet, nodding to Carolina. “I’ll see you tomorrow for the supply run.” His gaze shifts to Epsilon, wanting to tell him that this isn’t over, but he can’t find the words. In the end, he simply leaves.

It isn’t forgiveness, the thing fluttering in his chest. It’s something harder, something stronger. He thinks of the way Wash’s scream had bounced around his head and feels sick, slowing his pace long enough to stop dry heaving. Wash is fine. Wash is okay. Wash was returning from that mission today, and today he might finally show Tucker how to throw knives.

When Wash glances up as Tucker enters _their_ training room to start training, Tucker almost wilts in relief. “Hey, Tucker. I thought we could—whoa, what’s wrong?”

Tucker walks right up to him and hugs him so fiercely that they both stumble back. He buries his face in the crook of Wash’s neck, breathing deeply and pressing hard as if he can feel his pulse through their amour. One of his hands slides to cup the back of Wash’s helmet, just above the scars he knows are there. _How does it all fit,_ he thinks, dazed. _How do you make it all fit, inside your head?_

Wash’s arms close around him after only a momentary hesitation. “Tucker, what…?”

“M’glad you’re okay,” Tucker says gruffly, when he can trust himself to speak again. “Just. Glad you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” Wash says, bewildered. “I’m alright, Tucker. It wasn’t that risky of a mission.”

“Yeah,” Tucker says, and after another moment, he pulls away and gestures towards the knife. “Let’s do this.”

Wash’s brow is creased in a frown, but he nods. “Alright, then.”

Their training session is intense and focused, and Tucker works harder than he ever has before. _We’re here,_ he reminds himself, over and over again. _We’re alive, and we’re here._ He finds himself fascinated by the lines that Wash’s body makes, sharp and deadly sure, as the training knife carves through the air. They fall into the evasion drill as they have so many times before, bodies twirling and ducking and spinning together like fish through water, like lovers, moving together between the sheets.


	14. Chapter 14

Sorting recovered goods from supply run missions shouldn’t be a problem, yet as Wash has come to realize, the News and the Feds excel at making problem where there shouldn’t be any. Upon Kimball’s request, he relinquishes some quiet time to himself to help whip the storage area into shape. One food fight, two physical fights, and three hours later, the storage room is in respectable shape, and the soldiers of both armies are being reasonably pleasant to each other. In spite of this, it’s still a relief when Kimball radios him over to the landing bay, where Wash allows himself to unwind for a moment, anticipating being relieved from his baby sitting duties.

The relief vanishes when Tucker and Sarge descend from the Pelican, bickering loudly. Wash marvels at his ability to still be surprised by this.

“…weren’t even supposed to be _on_ this mission, oh my _God_ , you just can’t _stand_ the fact that you had to listen to me for the past three days—”

“Listen to you!” Sarge stops walking and puffs himself up, causing something of a hold-up on the ramp of the Pelican. “ _Listen_ to you! I did no such thing and I won’t have rumors spread that I took orders from a Blue!”

Tucker scoffs loudly. “That’s the point! You _didn’t_ listen to me! You didn’t listen to a _single_ word I said—Carolina, if you put the two of us on a squad together ever again I will—”

“You’ll work together and you’ll _like_ it,” Carolina snaps, who, Wash is unsurprised to see, looks thoroughly done with the pair of them.

“ _Dibs!_ I call dibs on leader next time. And shotgun. I also call shotgun.” Sarge pauses as if suddenly struck by brilliance. “I hereby call dibs on leader and shotgun on all missions that Captain Crunch and I are paired on from now until all eternity!”

“What—that isn’t—you can’t call dibs and shotgun on mission that haven’t been announced yet!”

“Can. _Did_.”

“You—”

Their sniping dims to background as Wash and several other soldiers help unload the Pelican. Carolina sticks around long enough to see that all of the boxes are accounted for before turning to Wash and clapping him on the shoulder. “Your turn,” she says, jerking her head towards Sarge and Tucker. “Have fun.”

Wash watches her walk off with a weary resignation. He sighs heavily and turns back to Tucker and Sarge. “Alright, _alright,_ enough arguing! Look, the faster we get this done, the faster we can go eat, and…”

He may as well be talking to a wall, and is reminded vividly of his earliest training sessions with the cadets. The feeling continues to sit as they bicker their way into the supply closet, and all through their cataloging. Simmons shows up halfway through and has a meltdown about the way they chose to organize the fruit, which at least gives Tucker and Sarge a common enemy to vent their frustration at.

When everything is finally catalogued, colored-coded, and put away, they all head up to the mess hall, Tucker dragging Simmons by his arm. “Wait! I think I saw a label-maker in the armory, if I just—”

“No, no, and _no_ ,” Tucker says, exasperated. “The room is organized enough. Jesus _Christ_ , you need to eat.”

They cram around their usual table, helmets set on the ground at their feet, and wait for the rest of their friends to join them. One by one, they trickle in: Donut chattering away, Grif slumping in crankily, Caboose exclaiming about a friendship bracelet he received from _someone_ no one else seems to know. With each new arrival, Sarge wastes no time in telling stories of the supply run that Wash is mostly convinced are fake. It’s light and easy and utterly ridiculous, and Wash finds himself basking in the familiarity of their banter. He gestures towards the pasta bowl, and Sarge shoves it his way. After spooning it onto his plate, he notices Tucker looking at him oddly.

“What?”

Tucker starts. “Huh? Nothing, nothing…”

Wash stares at him for several more seconds before shrugging and turning to his pasta. “Okay…”

He can practically feel Tucker’s eyes boring into the side of his head, which is distracting for several reasons, so Wash takes a moment to compose himself before meeting them again. “Tucker. _What?_ ”

“Nothing! It’s just…” Tucker glances between him and, bizarrely, _Sarge,_ for several seconds before turning back to his own food. “Never mind.”

“So, _Frecklelancer_ ,” Sarge says. “I was thinking we need to rearrange the training schedule to accommodate—”

Wash never finds out what Sarge wants to accommodate into the training schedule this time, because at that precise moment, Tucker slams down his fork and turns to face Wash head-on. “Okay, I’m sorry, I _have to know_ —did you really ask _him_ and Dr. Grey to have a threesome with you? Because like, he literally would not shut _the_ fuck up about it on the mission and I—”

Wash startles so badly that he very nearly sends his bowl of pasta flying. Wash grabs onto it and takes a moment to be grateful of the fact that he had no food in his mouth when Tucker asked that question. He turns his head slowly to Tucker. “ _What?!”_

“I mean, I just…” Tucker has the weirdest look on his face, like he desperately wants to find this funny, but can’t quite find the stretch. “I mean, Dr. Grey I can see, but _Sarge?_ Really?”

“I…” Wash swivels to everyone else, expecting stunned faces and pointed insults from the Reds, but they’ve barely glanced up, and that tells Wash all he needs to know. He turns furiously to Sarge, who looks the least interested of all. “ _Is that what you’ve been telling people?!_ ”

Sarge takes a serene bite of pasta and shrugs. “May have mentioned it, yeah.”

“I didn’t—you can’t— _I never asked to have a threesome with you!_ ”

Several of the nearby tables are eyeballing them, but Sarge either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “You may as well have! Stomping through doors without knocking—”

“I _did_ knock!  How was I supposed to know you were—were—doing _that_ —”

“Making sweet, passionate love?”

“—on her desk— _God_.” Wash buries his face in his hands for a moment before glaring at Sarge. “So, great. Now not only do I have _that_ image in my head for the rest of my life, but you’re _telling the entire base_ that I propositioned the two of you _for a threesome_?!”

“So wait, is that a _no?_ ” Tucker interrupts. “You didn’t ask him?”

“Is that a— _of course I didn’t!_ For God’s sake, Tucker!” His voice is starting to reach that high, pitchy tone it always does when he’s about to have a total meltdown, and he tries to bring it back down to a normal volume.

Sarge sighs and points a fork at him. “I was trying to do you a _favor_ by telling our men, Wash.”

“A…a favor?” Nope. The pitchy note is still there, possibly to stay forever. “A _favor?!_ ”

“Yup.” Sarge takes another bite of pasta and takes his sweet time swallowing it before continuing. “I was trying to light a fire under your boyfriend’s ass here so he’d get a move on and light a fire under yours!”

“ _Heyyyyy,_ nice one,” Tucker crows, and then he _high fives_ Sarge and that’s about enough for Wash. He swings his legs over the side of the bench and grabs his helmet, marching out of the room.

“Awwww, come on Wash!” Donut says from behind him, but Wash doesn’t stop until he reaches the firearms training room. He slams his helmet down on the floor and starts rifling through the collection of battle rifles. Tucker enters the room ten minutes later with his helmet tucked under his arm, looking, Wash is pleased to see, at least somewhat guilty.

“Oh, come _on_ , Wash.”

“Go away.”

Tucker sighs. “Don’t be such a _baby_ —”

“Why’d you have to bring that up in the middle of the mess hall?!”

“I just wanted to know!”

“And you _couldn’t_ have asked me when we weren’t surrounded by the Reds?”

“I didn’t think it was that big of a deal—” Tucker breaks off, snickering. He struggles in vain to wrest the smile off of his face when Wash glares at him. “I’m sorry, it’s just—dude, you’re just _soooo_ easy to get a rise out of.”

“What—I am _not!_ ”

Tucker snickers again. “Uh, yeah. _Okay._ Whatever you say.”

Wash huffs, turning away and letting a stony silence sit until Tucker breaks it with a sigh.

“Come _ooon,_ don’t be mad. I got you a present.”

Wash snorts, still rifling through his ammo. “A present.”

“Yeah.” Tucker moves into the room until he’s standing across from Wash. “On the supply run.”

“On the supply run? Shouldn’t it have gone into the room with everything else?”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Dude, _please_. Half the reason you go on supply runs is to get the _goods_. If you know what I’m saying.” He winks at Wash, which starts an instant blush in his cheeks, completely ruining any semblance of him trying to remain stern and annoyed.

Wash gives up pretending he’s still selecting a gun and faces Tucker, arms folded. “Alright, what is it?”

Tucker grins, setting his helmet down to pull something out of one of his armor pockets. He holds it out to Wash, who takes it after a slight hesitation. It’s a vacuum-sealed brown bag, no bigger than the length of his hand, and Wash can just barely make out the single word stamped onto it…

“Sugar?” he glances up at Tucker in disbelief. “You found _sugar?_ ”

The pleased look on Tucker’s face is almost enough to make Wash forget his previous agitation. “Sure _did_.”

“Is…” Wash holds up the bag as if he can see right through it. “Wait, is this _real?_ Real sugar?”

Without waiting for an answer, he rips open the top of the bag and peers inside as Tucker laughs. “Dude, what are you gonna do, eat the whole bag like it’s….”

Tucker trails off as Wash impatiently fumbles with the seals on his glove. He yanks it off, dipping his fingers into the bag to coat them with sugar, bringing them back up to his mouth to taste. It’s sweet, almost shockingly so after months of bland food, and Wash’s eyes flutter shut as the sugar melts on his tongue. “Oh, my _god_. It _is._ It is real sugar.”

He lets the moment sit, reveling in the sweetness—how _long_ has it been since he had real sugar? Months? Years?—before glancing back at Tucker to thank him. The words die in his throat. Tucker’s looking at him as if he recently took a blow to the head, and for a moment Wash stares at him in blank confusion. Surely Tucker should be snickering or telling him off for eating sugar out of the bag like a kid, or—

_Oh._

Wash’s eyes flick back down to the bag of sugar, then back up to Tucker’s dazed expression. For a moment, Wash hesitates, frozen in uncertainty, before a wave of recklessness sweeps through him, fueled by weeks of want and confusion and uncertainty and _“you’re just soooo easy to get a rise out of, Wash.”_ He holds Tucker’s gaze and plunges his fingers into the bag of sugar again, coating them thoroughly before bringing them back up to his mouth to suck away the sweetness.

By the time he finishes, Tucker’s jaw is hanging open, his eyes dark and heavy. Tucker’s hand reaches out to snag Wash’s wrist, holding the bag steady between the two of them. “Do—do that _again,_ ” he whispers hoarsely. “Just—please?”

Triumph and confusion war in Wash’s gut, confusion at the way Tucker is looking at him now versus his careful manner ever since the warehouse. The reckless triumph wins, and Wash dips his fingers back in the bag and licks the sugar off of them a third time, slower and more deliberate.

Tucker makes a noise that could almost be called a moan, and heat flares low in Wash’s belly. They stand there, frozen, and Wash swears that Tucker tightens his grip on Wash’s wrist and starts to lean in, closer and _closer_ until he halts so abruptly it’s as if a glass wall has sprung up between them.

“Fuck,” he groans, stepping, _stumbling,_ backwards. “Fuck! What the _fuck,_ Wash, you’re so—I want to— _Jesus Christ_ —” He takes a deep breath, and tears his gaze away from Wash and the sugar, looking up at the ceiling. “Okay. _Okay_. I need to—I have to—just, just _wait_ , okay? Just—I have to—get my fucking head straight— _yeah._ You’re so— _God,_ you’re gonna fucking _kill_ me—”

To Wash’s shock and frustration, Tucker practically _sprints_ out of the room. Wash stands there for a while, holding the bag of open sugar and feeling equal parts ridiculous and confused, before folding it up.

_“Really?!”_

* * *

The next two days are so filled with activity that Wash barely has time to think about Tucker’s bizarre behavior. He had known things would change after the warehouse, had even known that any chance of sexual intimacy was all but lost—and who could _blame_ Tucker, after a scene like that? Yet Tucker was acting so _oddly_ , bouncing from flustered and careful to flirtatious and gentle with such breakneck speed that Wash doesn’t know what to make of it.

There’s no time to think more deeply on it, other than a brief, hushed conversation with Donut in the supply room one day. “…so _then_ , he says something about needing to get his head on straight, and runs out of the room!” Wash gestures with his datapad in agitation. “I mean, what am I supposed to make of _that?_ ”

Donut is staring at him, jaw askew, the bags of rice he’s supposed to be shelving forgotten. “Wait, wait, _wait._ So you were _sucking sugar off your fingers_ and he _didn’t_ jump your bones?”

“I mean…it’s _weird,_ right?” Wash snags the bags out of Donut’s arms and starts shelving them, desperate for something to do with his hands. “I know it’s been a…a _while_ since I’ve…I don’t know, since—look, I’m out of practice. But I—I just _thought_ …” Donut is still staring at him with that glazed expression in his eyes, and Wash fidgets. “If you think it was too much, just tell me.”

“What?” Donut gives himself a shake. “I’m sorry. I just needed to fix that mental image in my mind forever.”

Wash’s face instantly heats up. “Oh, _Donut_ —”

“I just…” Donut shakes his head. “ _Goodness_ Wash, I’m frankly _shocked_ that he didn’t beg you to start sucking on something else right then and there!”

Wash nods. Might as well call it what it is. “So it _is_ weird.”

“Yes, but….not….for the reasons you’re probably _thinking_ ,” Donut says cagily.

“Well, _what_ reasons?”

“I….can’t say anything.”

Wash is instantly on high alert. “Wait, _what?_ Do you know something?”

“I can’t _teeeeeeell_ you,” Donut whines, looking highly distressed. “Oh, _Wash_. The two of you are _so_ dumb! I can hardly stand it!”

“Stand _what?_ ”

Donut grabs his shoulders and looks at him imploringly. “Wash. _Talk to Tucker._ Please. I am begging you. Just—you _have_ to talk to Tucker. About your _feelings_. About your _desires.”_

“I…” Wash’s face is turning red again just thinking about that conversation. “I _can’t_.”

Donut’s distress multiplies. “ _How_ can you let him _hold you during a nightmare_ but not be able to tell him that you want to _kiss his stupid face?!_ ”

Wash makes a noise halfway between a sigh of exasperation and a groan of despair. “I don’t _know!_ ”

“Wash.” Donut gives his shoulders a little shake. “Talk to him. Please.”

“I—wait, where are you going?”

“I have to go!” Donut calls over his shoulder. “I have to go before I either strangle you or start spilling all of my dirty little secrets!”

He flounces out of the supply room and Wash takes a somber moment to reflect on the fact that this is apparently his life now: gossiping in the supply closet with Donut about his stupid, _stupid_ crush.

He also reflects, however, that his instinct hadn’t been to break Donut’s wrists when he’d grabbed Wash’s shoulders. It’s not the sort of shining quality that people usually look for in friends, but it _is_ something, that Donut doesn’t inspire blind, reactive panic.

It’s something, alright.

* * *

Later that evening, Wash flops down onto the mats in the tiny training room closet, stretching his body out as best he can in the small space. He’d just finished some out of armor hand-to-hand with the cadets, and had stood in the shower for ages, staring at the wall in blank exhaustion. The thought of trekking all the way back to his room, where there were surely a crowd of people queued up outside his door needing his opinion on this or his assistance on that is too exhausting a prospect to bear. Far better to take a quick doze here first.

Ten minutes. _Ten_ minutes and a strong cup of coffee—with _sugar_ —is all he needs and he’ll be good as new. This is as good a place as any, and no one will come looking for him in here. His room may as well be the war meeting room this days, and if he can just rest his eyes for ten minutes, he’ll stop wanting to rip all his hair out every time someone asks his opinion on something.

He bolts upright again less than two minutes later as the door swings open to reveal Tucker standing there, backlit by the lights streaming in from the training room proper. “Oh, good. There you are. I’ve been looking _everywhere_ for you, Palomo thought he saw you go in here. I have to tell you something _now_ , like _right now_ before I chicken out….” Tucker trails off, seemingly to take in the full situation. “Uh, what the fuck are you doing?”

 “I’m taking a nap,” Wash says, dignified, even though he’s certain he looks ridiculous, sprawled out on the old training mats with an old punching bag for a pillow.

“Uh, don’t you have a _bedroom_ for that? With a bed?” Tucker throws up a hand as Wash opens his mouth defensively. “You know what, come back to it later. I have to tell you something.”

“Okay,” Wash says slowly, sitting up and frowning at Tucker. “What’s wrong? Are you alright?”

“Yeah yeah, I’m fine…” Tucker fidgets. “Promise you aren’t gonna be pissed?”

Wash pushes himself up straighter, eyeing Tucker. “That depends.”

“Ah. Okay. Well, in _that_ case—”

“Tucker…” Wash sighs. “Just tell me.”

Tucker visibly wrestles with his next words. “So uh, I got in an argument with Epsilon the other day and he—”

Wash propels himself to his feet, unsure at first of what caused the spike of adrenaline before realizing that Tucker said Epsilon. Not Church, _Epsilon._ “What happened?”

Tucker’s talking faster now, looking slightly alarmed at the way Wash leapt up. “He was just being such a _dick,_ accusing me of all this _bull_ shit—you know, like fucking with your head and shit, and I said, well, I guess you’d know since you’re the goddamn expert on _that,_ and I….told him to show me, you know, what happened to him so I could like, _understand_ how someone could do that to another person and...and he did.” Tucker fidgets, clearing his throat. “So. So that’s what happened.

Wash blinks at him as the silence stretches on before sighing. “Oh, Tucker.”

“I _know,_ I know…”

Wash finds himself reaching out to place the back of his hand against Tucker’s forehead before he realizes the absurdity of the gesture and snatches it back. “Are you okay?”

“What? Oh, yeah.” Tucker brushes his own hand absently through his hair. “You mean my head and shit? Yeah, I’m fine. It didn’t _hurt_ or anything, and I think he like—made it less intense or something. It was just...pictures. Like movie clips.”

Wash sighs. “He shouldn’t have done that, and _you_ shouldn’t have baited him.”

“I know, I just—he’s supposed to be my friend, ya know? I just wanted to understand.”

“Do you?”

Tucker looks at him hard. “No. I mean _yes_. I mean—I guess I understand that…that no one can understand, except you two.” He pauses, looking faintly pleased with himself. “God _damn_ , that was deep as fuck.”

Wash smiles slightly. “Very astute, Tucker.”

Now Tucker looks suspicious. “Okay, you’re freaking me out. I thought you were gonna lose it.”

Wash sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I mean…I think to be angry I’d have to be surprised, and I’m not.”

“Surprised that I asked, or surprised that he showed me?”

“Both.” Wash shrugs and tries to smile again, to let Tucker know it’s okay, but Tucker is still looking apprehensive.

“I just…I felt like you should know. I mean, if we’re going to…if you want to…it just felt shitty, to not tell you what I’ve seen.”

Wash still doesn’t know exactly what Tucker has seen, but he doesn’t ask. A part of him doesn’t think he can bear to hear the answer, but the other part thinks that it doesn’t matter. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

Whatever it was, Tucker’s still here.

“Did you see me?” Wash asks instead, waving his hands vaguely. “I mean. Did you see my _face,_ what I looked like?”

“I…yeah. Yeah, I saw you.”

“I was pretty good looking, right?” Wash jokes, desperate to make light of the situation, desperate not to frighten Tucker off any more than he probably already has been. “Before all the…”  He gestures at the scars, the lines, the dark circles.

Tucker looks at him and laughs, a brief, incredulous sound. “Dude. You’re fucking gorgeous.”

Wash’s eyes fly open wide, unsure of why he feels as if he’s just taken a punch to the face. “Uh…oh. Thanks, Tucker.”

Tucker ducks his head and shrugs, jamming his hands into his pockets. “Like. I’m just _saying_.” He clears his throat, glancing around. “So, anyway. _Why_ are you taking a nap in here instead of your own room?”

Wash sighs. “The problem is that everyone knows where my room is.”

Tucker stares at him. “And?”

“And I can’t nap in there. Not without someone knocking on the door every few seconds.”

“Okay…why is everyone pounding on your door?”

Wash shrugs. “Mission plans, training advice, the Feds and News are brawling in the mess hall, Sarge is wasting ammo again…you name it.”

“That’s not fair,” Tucker says, and something in Wash swells at the indignation in his voice. “They’re running you ragged. I’ll yell at some people, tell them to back off.”

“No, it’s okay,” Wash says. “I get it, we’re in the middle of a war and it’s all hands on deck.”

“Okay, but you need to _sleep._ You’re not good to anyone walking around like a zombie.”

“Hence why I’m here.” Wash gestures at his backshift bed. “I just thought…ten minutes is all I need.”

“ _Ten minutes?_ Jesus _fuck,_ Wash. When was the last time you really slept?”

“I _do_ sleep every night, you know.”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’ve seen that shit. Dozing off in ten minute increments isn’t _sleeping._ C’mon, you need some real sleep.”

“I’m just going to nap right here, it’s fine—”

“Wash, it can’t be humanly possible to take a comfortable nap on these mats.”

“I’m _telling_ you, I’m not going to get any sleep in my own room.”

“Well,” Tucker says with a shrug, “there’s a pretty obvious solution to _that._ ”

“There is?”

Tucker looks at him as if he’s being deliberately obtuse. “Sure. You can come nap in _my_ room.”

Wash freezes in the midst of folding the training mats back up neatly. Surely he’s imagining the way the space suddenly feels like there’s a closed circuit running through it. “Nap in _your_ room?”

“Yup,” Tucker says, ducking into the closet. “I think you’ll feel nice and rested after a nap in there.”

Wash shifts the training mats a little to the left, and then a little to the right, wishing he had a way to make his nervous shuffling less obvious, before giving up. It’s the first real innuendo Tucker has made in weeks, and it has him feeling oddly brave. _Just talk to him_ , Donut’s voice whispers, and Wash steels himself. “Tucker,” he says, and turns to look Tucker full in the face. “What does… _Tucker._ What does that _mean?_ ”

The expression on Tucker’s face shifts, and Wash is reminded, suddenly and vividly, of the first time he’d leapt out of a helicopter in basic. He’d glanced around at his squad and seen more emotions on their faces than he could ever remember seeing on any one face before: fear of the fall, and joy in the flight, and the strange bewilderment that came with seeing the ground at this height.

He watches those things in Tucker’s face now, before he sees them steady, melting to some new expression that Wash can’t quite name. “It can mean whatever you want it to mean. It can mean that you can go sleep while I guard the door. It could mean that we take the world’s best fucking nap together again because you look like you could use a cuddle buddy like, _all_ the time. It could mean I give you another A-plus massage. Or,” and Tucker’s stepping in closer now, “ _Or,_ it can mean that we go back to my place and I fuck your brains out _,_ however you want, as many times as you want, until you’re so worn out you get some real sleep.”

_Oh._

“Oh,” Wash says intelligently, after several long seconds of trying to remember to speak. He tries to force his face into an expression, _any_ expression, that isn’t the dumbstruck one he’s sure it’s currently stuck on. “That. _Well_. That. Answers my question, thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Tucker says, _again,_ in the same tone that he’d said those exact words in, in the training room all those weeks ago when his hand had burned like a brand against Wash’s skin. He’s definitely stepped closer into the closet, and Wash tries not to think of that afternoon, of Tucker’s eyes all dark and curious and the way Wash had gone back to his room after and thought of Tucker’s mouth all over him. Wash realizes he’s somehow walked himself right back into the wall of the closet and Tucker’s right in front of him, boxing him in. He’s leaning patiently against the opposing wall with his arms folded, head tilted and lips curved in a smile, apparently content to stand there forever until Wash says or does something.

Wash swallows hard. “I didn’t realize,” he says haltingly. “That you still wanted to do… _this_.”

Tucker stares at him for nearly a full ten seconds before the realization dawns. “What, _fuck?_ You thought I didn’t want to _fuck_ anymore? You _can’t_ be serious.”

“Well—I thought after, what _happened_ , you might have had…seconds thoughts,” Wash says defensively. “I wouldn’t _blame_ you—”

“Geez, you’re really looking for any excuse to get rid of me, aren’t you?” Tucker grumps. He rolls his eyes, but there’s something in his tone: a waver in his confidence, a flicker of uncertainty.

“No!” Wash says, and the clear panic in his voice has Tucker beaming, moment of uncertainty forgotten. “You’ve just been so…careful, since the warehouse.”

Wash thinks that if Tucker rolls his eyes one more time, they might actually fall out of his head. “Well, _duh._ Who tries to fuck someone right after something like _that?!_ What, like I’m gonna try to feel you up after you just woke up from some shitty nightmare? Because, maybe some people are into that, but seeing you like that does _not_ do it for me, dude. I’d _much_ rather hear you scream for some other reason.”

“I’m sorry,” Wash says. He shifts, guilty. “I should’ve—I didn’t mean to imply…all I’m saying is that I wouldn’t blame you, if you wanted to…to call this off. That’s all.”

Tucker sighs loudly. “Wash, I’ve been _being careful_ because I’m trying to _woo_ you! _Fuck_ me man, I don’t usually do this backwards— I’ve never…not like…but _you_ , you just…”

He falters, and it’s _this,_ more than anything, that settles some of Wash’s nerves. “Woo me.”

“Yes, you idiot.” Tucker stops and looks at him, sharp and seeing and a little sad, too. “You _really_ have no idea how badly I want you, do you?”

“Well,” Wash says, flustered, but he stops there, because he doesn’t know _what_ he’s supposed to say, or do, or even what he _wants_ to say or do—

What _does_ he want?

It’s not easy to strip away the feelings of guilt and expectation that he’s drilled into himself over the years and Wash doesn’t _entirely_ manage it, but he tries. He shoves down the voice in his brain that’s telling him that he doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve to feel good, doesn’t deserve someone like Tucker.

He looks at Tucker. _Really_ looks at Tucker, right into his curious, waiting eyes, and he tries to think. His dumbstruck brain isn’t helping interpret the images much: it gives him nothing but Tucker, Tucker holding weakly onto his hand in the Pelican, Tucker sulking during training exercises, Tucker placing a sugar bowl in front of him, Tucker’s dreads spilling over his shoulders as he removes his helmet, Tucker’s steady hands on his face in the dark, Tucker’s face inches from his own in training, Tucker laughing, Tucker, Tucker, _Tucker._

The realization comes sweet and slow, warming his veins like fine wine. There was never any actual brain damage, Wash realizes, at least not to his _sex_ drive—no magical switch that Tucker had flipped. There was only this: the feeling of _want,_ after years of not feeling safe enough to let himself have it. The feeling of _safety_ , after years of needing walls at his back and eyes on all the exits. There is only _Tucker,_ boxing him into this tiny closet, and it’s only now that Wash realizes he feels anything but trapped.

He feels _safe,_ here, with Tucker.

He _wants_ Tucker to box him in.

“If you want….” Wash stops, tries again, feeling ridiculous but pushing forward anyway. “If you want me so _badly,_ then come over here and do something about it.”

His words are halting and awkward but he doesn’t regret them, not when it makes Tucker’s whole face light up, not when it draws Tucker towards him like a magnet. Tucker lifts a hand and rests it along the side of Wash’s jaw, running his thumb over the cheekbone. Wash’s eyes close of their own accord, and he brings his own hand up to rest on the back of Tucker’s. When he opens his eyes again, Tucker’s face is inches from his own, his next words ghosting across Wash’s lips.

“ _Make_ me.”

The heat that had started boiling in Wash’s belly back in the training room flares to life again. For a few moments, neither of them move, frozen in the last few inches, breathing into each other’s space before Wash closes the gap and presses his lips to Tucker’s.

A rainstorm lights up in his brain, all flicker-lights and drums, beating away from the inside out. It’s the _good_ kind of beating, thunderclaps and heartbeats and wooden dance shoes on an oak floor, and there is a heat behind each brush of their lips that threatens to spill over and drown them both. Tucker’s mouth is as warm as the rest of him, and when he pulls back Wash finds himself following to kiss him again. He’s still sleeping, after all. He’s _definitely_ still sleeping, because this can’t be real—the way Tucker is cupping his face like it’s something precious, Tucker’s lips so soft and full, Tucker’s knees pressed up against his. It isn’t real. It can’t be real.

It’s the most real thing he’s ever felt.

“This could be a good experiment,” Tucker says when they finally pause for breath, panting into each other’s space. “Maybe sex will actually get you to sleep through the night, in which case, we should probably do it _all_ the time. You know. For science.”

“An experiment,” Wash says, and he can’t hide the stupid, ridiculous grin on his face. “For science.”

“Yeah,” Tucker says, dropping his forehead against Wash’s. “It’s, uh. It’s a chemical. Oxytocin. Or something.”

“Or something,” Wash echoes, because it’s all he can do now to echo Tucker’s words back at him. His ability to form coherent sentences left the building the second Tucker stepped close enough to touch, close enough to smell.

 “Or,” Tucker whispers, his breath ghosting across Wash’s lips again. “Or, just, whatever. I just fucking _want_ you, god, _so bad_ , I—”

Then Tucker’s mouth is on his again, the heat that they had both been holding back surging forward, fusing them together, knees and hips and chest and lips. Tucker presses forward so quickly that they stumble, and he has to place a hand on the wall by Wash’s head to steady them both. Wash curls his hands in Tucker’s t-shirt, pulling him closer until there’s no more space between the two of them, and he’s pressed flush between Tucker and the wall. Tucker’s tongue is in his mouth and his hands are under Tucker’s shirt and everything is burning, burning, burning. Tucker gets both of his hands in Wash’s hair and tugs gently, from roots to tips, before plunging his hands back in and doing it again. “Your fucking _hair,_ ” Tucker mumbles for some reason, but his lips are right on Wash’s ear when he says it and Wash thinks, _right, come back to it later._

Tucker pulls back, and the loss of his body heat is so sudden and startling that Wash actually whimpers before he can stop himself from making such a ridiculous noise. Tucker’s eyes widen at the sound before he mutters, “ _Goddammit_ ,” and Wash finds himself shoved back into the wall again with Tucker’s tongue in his mouth for another minute before Tucker pulls away, dragging Wash with him this time.

“We gotta go,” Tucker says hoarsely, half-dragging them out of the closet. Given that he’s also trying to bite Wash’s ear while doing so, they don’t get very far. “We gotta…gotta go. We can’t fuck here.”

“We can fuck here,” Wash insists, and as Tucker pulls back to look at him, incredulous, Wash realizes what’s so backwards about this situation: _he_ should be the one hustling them off to somewhere more private, and _Tucker_ should be the one trying to convince him to fuck in the training room. They both grin at each other, and Wash can see that Tucker’s realized it too.

“No, we can’t. There’s no condoms in here. We need condoms. Like, _lots_ of fucking condoms.”

“Hmmm,” Wash says, and he reaches down between them to squeeze Tucker’s hardening cock through his fatigues. “I can get you off without a condom.”

Tucker groans, back arching as he rolls his hips into Wash’s hand. “What the _fuck,_ Wash,” he gasps, and they spend several _more_ minutes in the closet, Wash nipping at Tucker’s neck and stroking Tucker through his pants until Tucker’s pawing at his shoulders. “Wash— _Wash._ My room. Condoms. Lube. _Now_.”

Wash breaks away, struggling to get ahold of himself. Tucker’s right. With the way this is going, they are probably going to need the condoms. He’s admittedly reluctant to leave this closet, this magical closet, for a world where fifteen cadets are going to need his assistance and Grif has probably lit the kitchen on fire and Kimball and Doyle are going to need his advice and Tucker is going to step into the light and look at him and realize that Wash is a total mess who hasn’t had sex in five years—

Tucker must see something on his face, because he frowns and presses a kiss so gentle to the corner of Wash’s jaw that Wash feels a lump in his throat. Christ, he can’t deal with having this many emotions in such a short time span, he’s going to explode. “Hey. What’s up?”

Wash gives himself a little shake. “I just…think we’re gonna make it to your room without any interruptions?”

“Oh, _trust_ me,” Tucker says grimly. “I will _make sure_ there are no interruptions.”

He takes a hold of Wash’s wrist and begins marching down the hall. It’s dinnertime, thank God, so a good portion of the base is in the mess hall. They studiously avoid that section and Tucker orders a few cadets out of the way before they’re rounding the corner to Blue Team’s hallway and Tucker fumbles the door to his room open.

The second the door closes behind them Tucker’s got him backed up against it, his hands in Wash’s hair again. Wash gasps as Tucker tugs his bottom lip between his teeth and sucks hard. Tucker breaks the kiss long enough to yank Wash’s shirt over his head. Wash returns the favor and then they’re pressed together from hips to shoulders, and the sudden warmth of skin on skin is so intense that Wash sways a little. Tucker presses him harder into the door when he feels Wash stumble, steadying him, and everything in the room tilts and shifts with a sense of unreality, and Wash wonders, for the briefest of moments, if this is really happening. The doubts that had crept in during their dash from the supply closet haven’t entirely gone away, and Wash is struck with a sudden desire to make sure that this is what Tucker wants. Tucker said he wants him but the words were like something out of a dream and he has to make sure, he has to…he has to…

Wash reluctantly breaks the kiss and tilts his head upwards, panting. “Tucker…”

Tucker just moves his lips to Wash’s neck, and the kisses are hot and wet and full of tongue, and teeth, he’s got his _teeth_ on Wash’s ear and his leg between Wash’s thighs. Wash’s hips jolt forward of their own accord, and he can’t think, he can’t breathe, Tucker’s hands are _everywhere_ and Wash can’t—

“Tucker,” he gasps, “Tucker, w-wait.”

Tucker stop sucking on his neck and pulls back, eyebrows furrowed. “What? What’s wrong?”

His thigh is still pressed up against Wash’s cock, and Wash realizes he hasn’t stopped grinding desperately on Tucker’s leg. “I, um. I, um.’ Wash says intelligently. He forces himself to stop staring at the way Tucker’s biting his lip, but he can’t stop the helpless roll of his hips. “I. Um. I just, I. Are you sure, you want to, with me, I…”

Tucker’s laughs, and it’s a breathy thing. He drops his forehead against Wash’s. “Dude. Is that what’s up?”

He finds Wash’s hands and tangles their fingers together, dragging Wash’s palm down to his own cock, and god, he’s so hard, Tucker’s _so hard_ and Wash is going to lose his goddamn mind right here and now. “Uh, fuck _yeah_ I want you. You need to hear me say it again? I’ll say it again. I’ll scream it from the fucking rooftops. _I want you_. Fuck, I want you, I want you, _I want you,_ I—”

Wash kisses him, palming Tucker’s cock through his pants. The sound that Tucker makes is just unreal as he presses himself harder into Wash’s hand. Wash moves his hand up and down Tucker’s length, and Tucker just starts _moaning_ , and holy shit, Wash absolutely needs that sound to continue. He grabs Tucker’s shoulders and reverses their positions so that Tucker’s the one with his back pressed to the door, drops to his knees, and starts fumbling with the zipper on Tucker’s fatigues. “ _Holy shit,_ Wash,” Tucker whimpers, his voice a distant thing over the blood thudding in Wash’s ears.

Tucker’s hands come up to rake through Wash’s hair as Wash sucks him into his mouth, and the movement of his hips is at first frantic and unpredictable. Wash makes his pace even, sucking Tucker down and almost pulling off, giving him time to adjust. He shoves the knowledge that he hasn’t done this in ages to the back of his mind and just fucking wings it, letting Tucker’s gasps and groans guide the way. Tucker slowly relaxes into it, spreading his legs wider and settling more comfortably against the wall. “Mmmm, _God_ that’s good Wash,” he mutters. “ _Fuck._ Look at me.”

Wash flicks his eyes up and Tucker’s mouth falls open as their eyes lock, the pacing of his hips growing more erratic once more. “Oh my God, you’re sucking my dick.  You’re _actually_ sucking my dick, _fuck_ that’s hot, don’t stop, please don’t stop I will literally do _anything_ you don’t stop, don’t stop, please…”

Every word and moan that falls from Tucker’s lips sends a jolt of pleasure through Wash’s body. He’s grinding his own hips forward into empty air, but his own need is a half-forgotten thing. Wash is too focused on Tucker, and the way his thighs are shaking under Wash’s hands and his fingers are stuttering in Wash’s hair and his voice is trembling under Wash’s touch. “Fuck, Wash, fuck, fuck _, fuck,_ if you don’t—I’m gonna—if you—”

Which Wash takes as his cue to suck Tucker down as far as he can. It’s been a while since he’s done this, but it’s like— _like riding a bike,_ Wash thinks, which is a ridiculous and filthy metaphor but he doesn’t care, he only cares about the fucking _noise_ that Tucker makes when his whole body jolts and he comes in bursts down the back of Wash’s throat.

Tucker’s hands are still in Wash’s hair, stroking almost reverently as he drops his head back against the wall and mumbles something. Wash pulls away with a pop and grins up at Tucker, who is still staring at the ceiling with his jaw hanging half-open. There’s triumph and affection and a desperate _need_ brewing in his belly and he drops his forehead against Tucker’s stomach and wraps a hand around his own dick. He tugs at himself until Tucker comes back down to Earth and makes an indignant noise, tugging his hands away. “Hnngh, no- _ooo_ way. Don’t you _dare_ Wash...I’m gonna…gonna make you come _so_ hard. C’mere.”

After a few more deep breaths, Tucker’s dragging him back up to his feet. Wash lets Tucker push him backwards onto the bad—he couldn’t resist even if he wanted to—and straddle him slowly. He flicks his eyes up and down Wash’s body, fascinated. “Fuck, dude, like your _abs_ , I could just _lick_ them.”

Which he proceeds to do, running the flat of his tongue up Wash’s abs. Wash gasps and jolts a little and Tucker glances back up at him. “So fucking _ticklish_.”

“I—ah— _yeah_ ,” Wash gasps, then drops his head back against the pillow as Tucker licks his abs again, making the most ridiculous slurping noise as he does so. “But it feels—it feels nice.”

Tucker laughs. “Dude, just fucking wait. I haven’t even done shit yet.”

To illustrate his point, he reaches his hand right into Wash’s pants, wraps a fist around his cock, and jerks at him slowly. Wash arches up into Tucker’s hand with a moan. He tosses his head back and suddenly Tucker’s lips are on his throat, sucking gently under his chin. Wash buries his hands in Tucker’s dreads and holds on as Tucker presses kisses all over his neck, his ear, his mouth; he’s pressing himself into Tucker’s hand but the pacing is maddeningly slow, too slow to actually get him off. He lets out a series of desperate whimpers as Tucker brushes his thumb back and forth over the tip of Wash’s cock, and Tucker pulls back, grinning. “You like that, Wash?”

Wash spends several seconds trying to remember how to speak before giving up and making a strangled noise of assent. He moves his hips a little faster, trying to get Tucker to speed up, but Tucker just slows down even more, and holy _fuck_ Wash doesn’t even recognize the sounds that are coming out of his mouth anymore.

“Look at you, so fucking wound up,” Tucker mumbles into his neck. “Gonna come again just from listening to you, _goddammit_ , Wash.”

Wash arches up frantically when Tucker slides his hand away, too far gone to feel self-conscious about the noise he makes. Everything is hot, his face, his skin, and somewhere in a dim corner of his mind, he registers that his hands are trembling in Tucker’s hair.

Tucker’s lips burn like fire on his skin as he works his way down Wash’s body, pausing to lick at his abs again. Wash gasps as Tucker tugs his sweatpants and boxers off of his hips and settles himself comfortably between Wash’s legs. He pants, spreading his legs a little wider as Tucker nips teasingly at the skin of his hips.

Tucker runs his palms up and down the insides of Wash’s thighs, grinning up at him before lowering his mouth to Wash’s cock. It takes all of Wash’s willpower not to thrust up into Tucker’s mouth, and his fists his hands in the sheets, tugging at them desperately. Tucker’s mouth is so warm and wet, and the sight of his lips wrapped around the tip of Wash’s cock is almost enough to make him come right then and there. He’s moaning and shaking as Tucker sucks him down and pulls off again, deliberate and sure and it feels so _good_ , Wash can’t remember the last time _anything_ felt this good. “Tucker,” he gasps, “Tucker, Tucker, _Tucker_.”

“Wash, Wash, _Wash_ ,” Tucker whispers back with a grin, before putting his mouth back on Wash’s cock and swirling his tongue around the tip. It’s so good, everything Tucker is doing feels so good and he isn’t sure if he wants to scream or gasp or moan or cry but it’s better than good, he’s going crazy, he’s losing his _mind_ and he’s never been so happy about it.

By the time Tucker takes his mouth away, Wash has lost the ability to remember how to speak. He settles for a strangled noise of protest as Tucker leans his face over Wash’s and just looks at him like Wash is the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen, like _Tucker’s_ the lucky one. Wash wants to tell him he’s wrong, to tell him _thank you_ , to tell him that this is something that Wash thought he’d never have again, but he just tugs Tucker back down for a kiss.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Tucker moans, breaking the kiss and dropping his head against Wash’s chest. “Fuck, I don’t know how I wanna make you come….” He lines their dicks up—Tucker’s hard again and Wash is going to lose his _mind_ —and rubs them together. Wash groans, pushing into the contact. “God, I could get you of just like this, look at you, you wanna come _so bad_ , don’t you?”

“Hngh,” Wash gasps, or something like it. Tucker’s dick against his own is amazing, is _maddening_ , but the pressure isn’t quite enough and he paws at Tucker desperately.

“I could suck your dick, or fuck you _so_ hard,” Tucker continues, and lifts his head to glance at Wash. “No, you know what, I’m gonna _ride_ you. Like a fucking _cowboy_. I wanna see the look on your face when you come.”

Wash brain goes offline for a moment at those words, and he tries to regroup as Tucker rolls off of him and starts throwing stuff out of the crate at the foot of his bed until he emerges, triumphant, with lube and an absurd number of condoms. He tosses the condoms at Wash, who fumbles them with shaking hands and almost comes on the spot when Tucker sits up on his knees, grabs the lube and just starts _fingering_ himself. Tucker’s body jolts as he groans low between his teeth, and Wash reaches for him clumsily, the condoms forgotten.

Tucker swats his hands away, grinning. “Later, dude. You just relax and watch the fucking show. Ah-ah—” he catches Wash’s hand as he moves it towards his dick. “No touching yourself, either. Watching only.”

Wash bites his lip, clutching the sheets desperately to keep himself from jerking himself off or jerking Tucker off or opening Tucker up; he isn’t sure which of the three he wants to do the most. It gets harder and harder to keep himself still as Tucker works himself open, pleasure flickering across his face. Wash busies himself by tearing open a condom wrapping and sliding it onto his dick after an attempt to put it on backwards. He squeezes his eyes shut as Tucker’s hand closes around his shaft, lubing up the condom, because he is not, not, not going to come from that.

His eyes fly back open as Tucker lines himself up and slowly sinks down onto him. Wash presses his head back into the pillow, panting loudly and trying to keep himself still. He runs his hands up and down Tucker’s thighs across his stomach, over his chest, before bringing them to rest on Tucker’s hips.

“It’s okay, dude,” Tucker says, grinning down at him. He splays out his hands on Wash’s chest and starts to move. “Go fucking crazy.” Wash thrusts up into him gratefully, and Tucker throws back his head and groans. “God _damn_ , Wash,” he hisses. “Mm, _yeah_ , just like that, do that again…”

The rhythm they set is firm and steady, Wash’s hands squeezing into Tucker’s hips as he slides up and down Wash’s dick. It’s good, it’s _so good_ , and Tucker is gorgeous, his movements confident and sure. Wash loses himself in the sensation, in the steadiness and overwhelming pleasure, the _so-good so-good so-good_ pounding in his head like a drum. It’s been too long and Wash doesn’t last more than a few minutes, but it’s long enough for Tucker to wrap a hand around his own dick, groaning and clenching around Wash as he comes again in between the two of them.

The look on his face is all it takes. Wash comes hard, and he isn’t sure if two minutes pass, or two days, or two years, all he knows is that he’s losing his mind, he can’t think, can’t comprehend anything but Tucker, Tucker, _Tucker_.

Tucker rolls off of him to stare open-mouthed up at the ceiling as Wash sits up shakily, peeling the condom off. His hands are still shaking badly enough that it makes a mess, but Wash doesn’t care, doesn’t care that there’s cum all over his chest and the sheets and both of their hands. He throws it in the trashcan and Tucker leans into the crate again, grabs a towel, and half-heartedly wipes both of them off until they both collapse, breathing hard, onto the bed.

“Wow,” Tucker says to the ceiling, then rolls his head to look at Wash. “Dude, are you okay? You’re shaking.”

Wash nods, reaching for Tucker. Tucker goes to him, rolling over so that their chests are pressed together, just like that first morning when they woke up together. “Thanks,” he manages. “That was… _thanks_.”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Oh man, I knew you were gonna get all weird after sex.”

But Tucker’s grinning as he says it, and Wash reaches up to touch the dimples on his face. _I can do that now_ , he realizes elatedly. He can touch his face and kiss his lips and Tucker will let him, because Tucker _wants_ him to. Wash may be dense, may still be half-convinced that he’s walking around in a dream, but Tucker wants him, _really_ wants him—wants to kiss him, _is_ kissing him, the press of his lips soft and steady, the drag of his hands over Wash’s shoulders tingly and electric. Wash tangles his hands in Tucker’s hair and holds him there, kisses him back, a wild, half-forgotten happiness blooming and blossoming inside his chest, unfurling towards the sky to catch the rain.

 

**END PART ONE**

 


	15. Chapter 15

**INTERLUDE**

_Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door_  
_Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door_  
_Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door_  
_Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door_

* * *

It is so very cold in space.

The planet where he came from _burned_ , with a sun so unbearable that it was often dangerous to be outside during the daylight hours. Expansive, and seemingly endless tunnels, stretched from building to building, with cooling units that ran constantly in the background. Their hum was a dull, maddening thing, and although it has been years since he’s heard the fans, he sometimes finds himself twisting and turning to find the source of the drone inside his head.

Memory. Only memory.

As a child, he used to dream of green. Lush grass, expansive forests, bright leaves and petals and blue water. Cool colors. Soothing colors. _Any_ colors other than the browns and oranges and reds of his youth.

Space did not bring him green, but it did bring him an endless, inky black, broken only by the white light of the stars. Space was relief from the harsh climate of his youth. It was dark. It was empty.

It was blessedly, _gloriously_ cold.

He still finds himself staring out windows, transfixed by the pale distance of the stars. They help him think. There were patterns, in the stars, if only he could see them.

When the door opens behind him, he does not turn. He waits—he is, if nothing else, a _patient_ man—and sure enough, his visitor is silent for mere moments before speaking.

“ _Sooo._ Aiden-fucking-Price. Is that your _real_ name?”

Price waits another several seconds before turning to face his visitor. “Is Felix yours?”

Felix snorts. “Of course not. What, do you think I’m fucking _idiot?_ ”

Quite.

“Is there something I can help you with, Felix?”

“You can _start_ by giving us some useful information on how to take these fuckers out.” Felix has either forgotten his initial question or, he never truly cared for the answer in the first place. Regardless, it is foolish, allowing Price to dictate the conversation this early in the game.

“It seems they are proving themselves quite worthy opponents.”

“What—no they’re _not!_ They’re just…” Felix visibly struggles to find words worthy enough to express his agitation before tossing his hands in the air. “It’s these fucking _Freelancers_ and these _sim_ troopers! Christ, we never had a problem playing this planet like a goddamn fiddle until they showed up!”

“They _are_ heroes, to these people.” Price glances out the window again. Patterns, in the starlight, so _many_ patterns. “I highly doubt that the sudden insurgence in victories has anything to do with their skill as _soldiers_ so much as it does their ability to boost this planet’s morale.”

“Yeah, _well,_ they’re certainly kicking our asses enough in battle to make me doubt _that_ fucking analysis.” Felix pauses. “The _Freelancers_ , I mean. The Reds and Blues are a fucking _joke_.”

“I would argue that it is mostly the Simulation Troopers who—”

“Are you fucking serious? Oh man, you should take Locus out to dinner sometime. The two of you could sit and jerk each other off thinking about the darling _sim troopers_.” 

“I merely think that the morale the Red and Blue soldiers have—”

“Oh my _God,_ I don’t care. It wasn’t a fucking sim trooper who took down all our shields at that gun warehouse, or rendered _my_ fucking shoulder useless for two days at the way station last week.” Felix scowls at the memory. “I want to know how to take these Freelancers _out._ ”

“The Counselor has already given us information on the Freelancers and their weaknesses.”

They turn to see Locus, standing just inside the doorway as if he’s been there all along. For all Price knows, he _has_ been. Impressive. He didn’t even hear Locus’s approach, unlike Felix, who stomps through the corridors just because he can.

Felix has made clear his opinion of Price’s insights abundantly clear; in all of his work with elite soldiers, Price has never before met one with Felix’s _remarkable_ capacity to display genuine feeling with such alacrity.  “He told us that Agent Carolina is a touch too competitive,” Felix says now, the dismissive tone in his voice all too clear. “Like _that’s_ a big surprise—and that Washington is a big crybaby who doesn’t want another A.I. in his head. _How,_ exactly, are either of those things going to help us?”

Locus regards Felix dispassionately before turning to Price. “Why does Agent Washington refuse access to his neural implants?”

Felix groans, throwing himself into a chair. “Agent Washington, Agent _Washington_.” He glances at Price. “Locus here has a gigantic loser _crush_ on our friend Washy. Going on and on about how he was such a true soldier—I’m pretty sure he’s written about him in his _diary_ —”

“Enough,” Locus snaps, and to Price’s surprise, Felix _does_ quiet. Interesting. “We know from the intelligence recovered from Freelancer that Agent Washington had an A.I. The _Epsilon_ unit, in fact. We know that he only functioned with that A.I. for a short time before it was removed. What we _don’t_ know is why.”

“Do we _care?_ ”

Locus turns to Price slowly, expression forever unreadable beneath that blank helmet. “Do we?”

“The removal of the Epsilon unit from Agent Washington’s neural interface was due to Epsilon’s attempted self-destruction,” Price says. “We…started to suspect that his fragment held highly sensitive information, vital to the survival or Project Freelancer. Once it became clear that we were going to remove him from Washington for further examination, he took matters into his own hands.”

“Attempted self-destruction…so, what, he tried to _kill_ himself?” Felix snorts. “Bet _that_ fucked up Wash’s head.”

“It took him years to recover from the brain damage done. One of his clear conditions for working for us as a Recovery Agent was that under no circumstances would he accept another A.I.”

“It _is_ interesting,” Locus says slowly, “that a soldier such as Agent Washington would be so… _vocal_ , about something that causes him such distress.”

“Fascinating,” Felix drawls.

They ignore him. “Unless it was an act?” Locus postulates. “A ruse, designed to hide a true weakness.”

“It was no ruse,” Price says. Of that he is certain. “It is true that Washington was able to… _mislead_ us about his true purpose in becoming a Recovery Agent, but his feelings about refusing A.I. access to his implants was genuine. I would go so far to say that the prospect causes him not only distress, but also great fear.”

“As much as I’m enjoying this story,” Felix says, “I fail to see how this is going to help us in the slightest. Great, so, Washington doesn’t want an A.I. in his head. We’ll just plant another one in his brain for the _fun_ of it! I’m sure _that’ll_ help us turn the tide of this fucking war…”

Price watches as Felix trails off, staring hard at Locus before scoffing. “You can _not_ be serious. _That’s_ your plan?”

“I wouldn’t call it a plan,” Locus says slowly. “More…the beginnings of an _idea_.”

Felix pushes up from his chair, pacing back and forth. “Oh, _okay!_ We’ll just pull one of the dozens of A.I. we just _happen_ to have lying around and stick it in dear Agent Washington’s head! Which will accomplish…I’m sorry, _what_ , exactly?”

“We have _information_ on what one of our biggest obstacles fears the most,” Locus growls, agitation creeping into his tone for the first time. “Don’t think we should _use_ it?”

“Listen, _Locus_ , I’m all for using whatever we can get, but I don’t see how _this_ is going to be of any use to us at all—”

Their bickering fades into the background, a low buzzing drone that sets Prices’s teeth on edge. Still, it is familiar—reassuring, even. The cooling fans nearly drove him to madness in his youth, but their hum could always be counted on. It was constant, unerring.

Predictable.

“I think,” he says, “that I have an idea.”

The irritating hum of their argument falters, and Price lets them wait, focused once more on the yawning black and pinprick stars. He uses them to chart his thoughts, traces their lines to connect patterns, and sure enough, there it is. Step one in ending this war, in getting himself out of this mess.

He turns to look at Felix and Locus, who are assessing him with impatience. _Felix and Locus._ Code names, of course. He had never understood the point himself.

Aiden Price _is,_ in fact, his real name.

 


	16. Chapter 16

**PART TWO**

_Mama, put my guns in the ground_  
_I can't shoot them anymore_  
_That long black cloud is comin' down_  
_I feel I'm knockin' on heaven's door_

 

* * *

 

When Tucker wakes up, it’s to the feel of gentle fingers running up and down his arm, and a reddish light pressing against his closed eyelids.

He keeps his eyes shut for several minutes longer and soaks in the sensations. The sunlight is nice and warm, the hand on his arm tickles pleasantly, and he’s pretty confident Wash is doing that thing where he stares in awe at the glorious sight he got to wake up next to. Tucker is _mooore_ than happy to give him something to stare at. He makes his face nice and soft, before pretending to wake up slowly, scrunching his nose and blinking open his eyes blearily. Adorable. He is fucking _adorable._

Tucker finally focuses his eyes to see that Wash is staring at him alright, but the look is less awestruck and more amused. “Smooth, Tucker.”

“Right?” Tucker winks up at him. “Smooth as _butter_.”

Wash rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning and he seems unable to stop. He’s relaxed and happy in a way Tucker’s never seen and it’s a god _damn_ good look on him.

Tucker reaches up to ruffle Wash’s hair, just because he can. “Sleep okay?”

Wash laughs, bright and bursting. “I don’t think I moved all night.”

“ _Yeeeeeah,_ I wore you _out,_ didn’t I?”

“You, uh. That you did.”

Tucker grins, tugging Wash back down for a kiss. It’s sloppy and wet and they both have morning breath, but it’s pretty goddamn great anyway. “You’re really good at that.”

Wash pulls back enough to squint at Tucker suspiciously, as if he thinks Tucker’s fucking with him. “Good at what?”

“At _kissing,_ you loser.” Wash flushes a little, but he looks pleased too, so Tucker keeps it up. “At dick sucking, too, like _hoooly_ fuck.”

“It was the build-up, Tucker.”

“Uh, _no_ , it was your fucking _mouth._ You need to give me lessons on that thing you did with your tongue, where you like…”

He sticks out his tongue and tries to demonstrate, which accomplishes absolutely nothing except getting Wash to laugh again, so it’s not a total loss. It also gets Wash to give him a considering look and say, “Well, I suppose it _could_ be one more thing that we add to your lessons.”

Tucker sits up so fast that he almost clocks Wash in the forehead. “Uhhhh, fuck _yeah_ it can! And can you use your _‘I want twenty laps around the canyon’_ voice when you do it? And can we do it in the training room? And—”

“Tucker, _no_. We are _not_ fooling around in the training room.”

“Dude! _You_ were the one trying to fuck me in the training room closet yesterday!”

“Yes…well….that was different,” Wash says, dignified. “I was…caught up in the moment.”

Tucker snorts. “It’s gonna happen. You’ll see.” He’s getting hot just thinking about it, getting on his knees while Wash tells him what to do with his mouth in that fucking velvet voice of his. Maybe they _would_ be in the training room. Maybe they’d be in full armor, and Wash would take off nothing but his codpiece. The possibilities were endless. “Man, do you know how hard I’ve worked to _control_ myself lately—with you strutting around licking sugar off your fingers, Jesus _Christ_ …”

Wash grins at the memory before something visibly occurs to him. “Is _that_ why you ran off so quickly afterwards? Your fight with Epsilon?”

Tucker sighs. “Yeah. I was just being too chicken shit to tell you. Didn’t want that hanging over my head like a fucking anvil, though.” He slants a look at Wash. “I can’t believe you thought I didn’t want you, _God_. What, do you think I’m _blind?_ ”

“Well…” Wash shrugs. “I wouldn’t have—you saw what I was like, and…with Epsilon…”

“Ugh,” Tucker makes a face. “ _Fuck_ Epsilon. I don’t want to talk about him. Let’s talk about something way more interesting. Let’s talk about your wish list. Your _sexy_ wish list.”

“What—I don’t have a _sexy wish list_ , Tucker.”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “I’m not asking for like, a fucking alphabetized spreadsheet, Wash. Just…you know, some stuff that you’re into. Give me something to work with here.”

Still, _still,_ Wash does a double take. “You…so this really is something you want to do again, then.”

Tucker groans, pulling a pillow over his face in distress. “Yes, Wash! Jesus! I want to fuck you like a million more times, and cuddle with you and like, hear about your day and shit. What, do I need to ask if you wanna go steady? Jesus jumped up _Christ_ …”

“ _Alright,_ alright,” Wash huffs. “I just—want to be sure.”

Tucker removes the pillow and casts a long-suffering look at Wash. “Dude, you’re sure, I’m sure, the whole base is sure. Let’s fuck. If you’re not gonna tell me any of your kinks, then let’s go back to the part where you were sucking on your fingers because holy shit, that was totally working for me.”

Wash gives him a look. “Oh, well, in _that_ case, let me just go grab the sugar, then.”

“Okay.” Tucker sits up a little straighter, folding his hands in his lap. “I’ll wait.”

“Very funny.”

“Dude, I never joke about sex.” Tucker reflects. “Well, okay, yes I do, but I’m not joking about this.”

When Wash still continues to stare at him as if Tucker’s speaking a foreign language, Tucker sighs, puts his first two fingers in his mouth, and sucks on them. He makes it as obscene as he possibly can, swirling his tongue and dragging his teeth and even throwing a moan or two in there. Wash stops fidgeting and just stares at him, transfixed, until Tucker pulls his mouth away and grins. “See? It’s not that hard—”

He cuts himself off, startled, as Wash sits up and grabs Tucker’s wrist and tugs it towards him. Wash unfolds Tucker’s fingers, flattening out his palm and rubbing small circles there with his thumb. They stay like that for a few moments, Wash tracing the love lines and the laugh lines and whatever the fuck lines they are, before bringing his own mouth to Tucker’s palm.

Tucker makes a noise somewhere between a yelp and a moan as Wash drags the flat of his tongue against Tucker’s palm, then reverses the motion with his teeth. Sparks of pleasure jolt through Tucker’s body, crackling inside his skull, burning down his spine, and he finds himself squirming closer and closer until he’s half in Wash’s lap, his legs locked around his waist as he tries to squirm away and move closer all at once.

Wash moves his palm to suck Tucker’s first two fingers into his mouth, dragging his teeth along the edges and doing that _thing_ with his tongue again. Tucker tips his head back to pant at the ceiling, his free hand scrabbling for purchases against the wall, the sheets, Wash’s hair, _anything_ ; he can’t stay _still_ and Wash is going to drive him _insane_ —

Wash is saying something, the words vibrating pleasantly against Tucker’s palm, and it isn’t until he pulls away to grin that Tucker’s ears start semi-functioning again. “So sensitive,” he murmurs, placing another kiss to the outside of Tucker’s thumb. “Hmm. I think I found your hotspot.”

“Wh—you did not!” Tucker protests. “My sweet spot is not my _hand_ , what the—what the fuck, fucking goddammit, Wash—!”

It is. His sweet spot apparently _is_ his fucking _hand_ , which is the lamest thing in the world, except it’s _not_ because Wash’s teeth are dragging across the heel of his palm again and it’s turning Tucker’s brain to ash. He can’t think, he can’t breathe, and then Wash warps a loose hand around the base of Tucker’s dick and jerks his fist up slowly, _twisting_ as he goes, _Jesus Christ_ , he’s going to get him off just like _this,_ just from kissing Tucker’s _palm_ —

“Wait,” Tucker gasps, his hips rolling forward into Wash’s hand nonetheless. “Wash—wait—I wanna fuck you, I wanna—”

Wash silences him with a kiss, and although Tucker’s palm feels oddly cool and empty with the loss of Wash’s mouth, his _own_ mouth is more than happy with this turn of events. He surges forward so quickly that they topple backwards, Tucker landing half on top. He takes immediate advantage, tracing his tongue along the shell of Wash’s ear until his breathing turns ragged. “Pinned you.”

“What—you did _not,_ I let you do that,” Wash protests, but he doesn’t sound nearly as convincing as he’d probably hoped.

“ _Suuuure_ ,” Tucker says, and plants another filthy kiss on Wash’s lips before craning his neck around. “Shit, what’d we do with the lube…”

He half-heartedly pats around the pillows before pushing himself off of Wash with a groan, leaning his upper half off the bed to peer under the bed. The lube is nowhere in sight.

“Found the condoms, at least,” Wash says, and Tucker peeks his head up to see Wash fishing the roll out from in between the bed and the wall. “Where did you _get_ all of these?”

“Uh, supply run, of course…a- _ha!_ ” Tucker almost face plants off the mattress when he spots the lube under the bed, straining to reach it. He emerges, triumphant, to see Wash watching him in amusement.

“Is that why you really went on the supply run?”

“I went on the supply run because I was _assigned_ to it,” Tucker says, striving for as much poise as he can muster while liberally coating his fingers with lube. “And, yeah. I had to get me some _sugar._ In more ways than one.”

He waggles his eyebrows at Wash, who looks torn between exasperation and laughter. “Really.”

“ _Yeah,_ really.” He pushes Wash back down so he’s lying flat on his back. “ _Now_ , are we gonna play twenty questions, or are you gonna let me finger fuck you?”

Wash grins up at him, all breathless and blushy and so fucking _gorgeous_ that Tucker doesn’t know what to do with himself. Those goddamn freckles are going to be the end of him. He settles himself in between Wash’s legs and hooks one of Wash’s thighs over his own shoulder, for no other reason than he’s imagined doing this exact thing every time he’s seen Wash stretching. He runs a hand up and down Wash’s leg, kneading the muscles in his thigh before wrapping a hand around Wash’s dick.

He gets a few good strokes in and is just getting ready to stretch Wash open when something occurs to him. “Wait, you _have_ been with dudes before, right?”

Wash whines a little as Tucker’s hand stills on his dick. “W-what?”

Shit. “’Cause, if this is your first time taking it up the ass then you gotta let me know so I don’t like, go fucking nuts here.”

“Oh—no—I mean, yeah, yes, yes.” Some of the fog clears in Wash’s eyes. “I’ve…been with men before, yes. I thought you knew that?”

“Oh, good,” Tucker says in relief, speeding up his hand again. “I mean that’s cool if you haven’t, I just wanted to check. ‘Cause like, you mentioned fucking that girl back in Freelancer, but you never actually said anything about riding any dicks, so—”

“ _Tucker,_ ” Wash groans, throwing an arm over his eyes as he rocks more insistently into Tucker’s hand. “Can we _not_ —”

Oh. Right. Maybe not the best idea to bring up the dead ex-fuck buddy of the dude you’re currently trying to bang. “Shit, my bad. Forget I mentioned that. Just—focus on the handie I’m giving you here.”

“I’m _trying_ —”

“I’ve fucked dudes before too,” Tucker says conversationally. “Not, like, a _lot_ , but I know my way around a dick—”

“I’ve noticed,” Wash groans, and then his hips do a forward-back-forward-back thrusting thing as Tucker wriggles a lubed-up finger inside of him. “ _Ohhh_ , fuck…”

“Just like, enough to get stuff done,” Tucker pants, but he’s starting to lose the thread of the conversation as Wash goes to pieces underneath him. “To, uh… _Jesus,_ Wash…”

He grinds his own dick down against the mattress as Wash lets out a shaky moan, and claps a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound. Tucker works in a second finger, angles his wrist, and curls his fingers hard. He grins in delight as Wash’s back practically arches off the bed, and he claps his other hand over his mouth as well.

“Wash…” he groans. “ _Wash_ …get your fucking hands back down…I wanna hear…all of these noises….”

Wash does bring his hands back down, to tangle in Tucker’s hair, although he grits his teeth hard as Tucker curls his fingers again. “Tucker—I— _I_ —”

“Oh, shit, you ready dude? Ohh fuck, okay, you got the condoms, good—rip one off for me, my hand’s all lubed up…”

Tucker keeps on stretching him open as Wash fumbles with the condom, finally ripping one open and tossing the rest aside. His hands are shaking slightly as he moves to hand it to Tucker, and promptly drops it as Tucker gets a third finger in there. “Shit, sorry, shit, shit, shit—”

Wash pats around blindly for the dropped condom and thrusts it at Tucker. “Here—here—”

“Someone’s eager,” Tucker says with a snicker, as he pulls his fingers out and fumbles the condom on his dick and lines himself up at Wash’s entrance. “Hmm. Maybe I should call you butterfingers.”

“Hnngh—do— _not_ —”

Then Wash stops talking and Tucker stops thinking and they both start doing a whole lot of gasping and panting because Wash is so _tight_ and he feels so _good_ and he wraps his hands in Tucker’s hair and tugs _hard._ He hesitates when Tucker moans so loudly it almost echoes, and Tucker presses his head into Wash’s hand.

“Didn’t hurt,” he whines thrusting in deep and circling there. “Do—do that again.”

Wash obliges, winding his fingers through Tucker’s dreads and pulling _juuuust_ hard enough. He keeps it up for a while until Tucker moves his hips faster and Wash clutches hard at Tucker’s shoulders, the wall, the sheets beneath them. “Is—it—is it too much?” Tucker pants between thrusts.

“No—no—it’s—it’s—it’s _good_ , it’s—oh God, God, _God_ …” Wash trails off into a wordless gasp that turns into a moan, his hand flying up to cover his mouth. When that’s not quite enough to stifle the sounds, he grabs a pillow and smashes it over his face.

Tucker laughs breathlessly, tugging the pillow away. “Uh-uh…don’t you dare…deprive me of these…these fucking noises you’re making.”

When Wash is bringing a hand back up to his mouth again a few seconds later, Tucker catches his wrist and pins it gently to the bed. He tangles their fingers together, keeping the pressure light and reassuring, but to his surprise, Wash gasps as if he’s been electrocuted, his hips rolling up even harder to meet Tucker’s.

Holy _fuck_. Tucker reaches for Wash’s other wrist and secures that one over their heads as well, giving Wash’s hands a squeeze, and yup, Tucker can definitely get behind this plan. He can see every inch of Wash’s arms like this, stretched out over his head in all their chiseled glory.

Wash lets out a particularly loud moan when Tucker thrusts in deep and starts circling, and Tucker can feel him automatically trying to tug a hand back down to stifle the sound. Tucker tightens his grip just enough to keep Wash’s wrists where they are, and the look Wash gives him is wide-eyed and wanting and somehow _stunned_ and there’s no way Tucker’s going to last at this rate.

He finds a pace that has them both groaning and gasping into each other’s necks, and soon Wash is writhing underneath him and saying, “Tucker— _Tucker_ —I’m—”

But Tucker can feel it, can feel the way that Wash is simultaneously trying to thrust his hips up and rub his dick against Tucker’s stomach. He lets go of one of Wash’s wrists and instead of clutching at the sheets or trying to cover his mouth again, _Wash keeps his hand there_ , fingers curling tightly around one of the metal bars at the head of their bed.

For some reason, that’s what does it: Wash’s hand just where Tucker put it, wrapped around the cold metal bed frame, holding on so tight that Tucker can see the muscles in his arm straining. He comes hard himself only a few seconds after getting his hand around Wash’s dick, but Wash isn’t far behind, thrusting desperately up into Tucker’s palm and coming with a moan that Tucker _sincerely_ hopes the entire base heard.

Tucker keeps jerking at him until Wash collapses onto the bed, boneless and thoroughly wrung out. Tucker yanks off the condom, throws it in the trash, and falls on top of Wash.

“Tucker,” Wash protests, but there’s no real conviction in his voice. “You’re making a mess.”

He’s not wrong—Wash’s jizz is all over both of them, and the sheets are a total mess—but Tucker can’t bring himself to care just yet. “God, that was good,” he sighs against Wash’s chest. “You’re like, _super_ sexy, dude.”

“Hmm.” Wash sighs, content, and runs a hand down Tucker’s back. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

Wash reaches an arm over the side of the bed and retrieves the towel they used last night. “Come on. Before it dries.”

Tucker grumbles, but grabs the towel and sits up enough to wipe himself off. “Fine, fine…”

“We’re probably not going to have time to take a shower,” Wash says, and glances at the clock. “Ah, dammit. We should really get going…”

Tucker whips the towel away and tackles Wash back down to the mattress with a grin. “Yeah, in _that_ voice? All disappointed and shit?”

“Well—I mean—”

“You wanna stay in bed with me all day,” Tucker crows. “You wanna bang me like ten more times, and cuddle, and take _naps_ and—”

He ducks as Wash whips a pillow at his head. “I’m not the one preventing us from getting up!”

“—and eat pizza and drink wine and shit—damn, do you think we can even get pizza on this planet? Probably not. Well, whatever. We can eat MREs in bed, I’ll fix ‘em up so they don’t taste like shit.”

Wash plants a kiss on his forehead with a sigh, rolling off the bed. “If only.”

Tucker’s grin fades as Wash sits up and starts hunting for his Kevlar suit. He drinks in the sight of Wash moving naked around his room, a weird burst of panic surging through him when Wash steps into the suit, and it knits itself up his back.

“Wait,” he blurts, and Wash pauses in the act of strapping on his chest plate.

“What’s wrong?”

“I just…” Tucker toys with the edge of the sheet, suddenly unable to look at Wash. It hits him then, the _unfairness_ of this, that they can’t stay in bed and eat pizza and fuck the day away—that in all odds, they won’t be able to for some time. This war, this _real_ war that they’re all wrapped up in, is far from over and they’ve both already almost died a whole bunch of times, and probably will a bunch more.

Wash is in front of him then, tipping his chin up wordlessly, and Tucker rallies. “We’re gonna fuck again, right?” he asks, trying to make it sound like a throwaway question. “I mean, you’re not gonna leave and get all weird, or think I’m like, regretting this or something? Because I’m not, just so you know. I mean, I think you’re hot, like super fucking sexy, and if you _want,_ I mean, I’d like to fuck you again ‘cause _you_ may not have a sexy wish list but _I_ sure do—”

Wash’s lips are cool and gentle and somehow already familiar. Tucker presses into them, curls a hand in Wash’s hair and just soaks in it, the feel of his lips and hair and the faint scruff on his chin. “I’d like that,” Wash says formally when he pulls away, like the gigantic dork he is. “I’d like that a lot.”

“Okay, cool,” Tucker says, the perfect picture of casualness, and he vaults off the bed to start dressing next to Wash. Their armor is all mixed together on the floor and it keeps drawing Tucker’s eye, the bright aqua next to the steel and yellow plates. It looks good, Tucker thinks. Wash’s armor looks _damn_ good on his floor, and Wash looks _damn_ good in his bed, and that smile looks _damn_ good on his face, and if you’d told Tucker even ten weeks ago that this would be what he woke up to, he would never have believed it, not in a million years.

 _That’s love and sex in a warzone for you,_ Tucker thinks. He thinks it quietly, a half-recognized thing, the _love_ just barely fluttering on the edges of the thoughts. _That’s the thing._

_You never know when it’s coming._

* * *

“Before you ask, the answer is _yes,_ we fucked, and _yes_ , it was awesome.”

Tucker whips his helmet off, pleased, and stares around. He waits for the inevitable gasps and inquiries, the misty eyes from Donut, the pat on the back from Grif, the—

He’s so caught up in imagining this scene, rife with high fives and cat calls, that it takes him several seconds to realize that the only reaction is Wash’s mortified voice hissing _, “Tucker!”_

Tucker frowns. “Uh, did you guys hear what I just said?”

With another exasperated look, Wash takes off jogging around the track. Caboose stands up, pats Tucker on the head and says, “Nice try, Tucker,” before taking off after him.

Tucker gapes after the pair of them before whipping back to the rest of his friends. He had, admittedly, spent a good portion of the morning waiting for _someone_ to come up to him and say something—half the _base_ had done little else for _weeks_ —but no one had so much had glanced in his direction. He’d been sure that the rest of the Reds and Blues would have something to say at least, but so far, they’re letting him down _big_ time. “Wait—whoa, did he think I was lying? I’m not lying, we _did_ fuck!”

“Sure you did, Tucker,” Grif yawns. “I’m sure it was great.”

“What—fuck _yeah_ it was! It was awesome and you _wish_ you’d been there—”

“Please, spare us the details,” Sarge grunts, and takes off after Caboose and Wash.

Tucker stares after them before jamming his helmet back on, feeling unreasonably disgruntled. “Don’t you guys have a bet going on or something?”

“Believe it or not, some of us have more important things to worry about than your sex life, Tucker,” Simmons sniffs. His tone isn’t aggressive but it’s way sharper than Tucker’s used to, and he turns to Grif, confused.

“Okay, what’s going on? Geez, someone get Donut here to lighten the mood…” Tucker glances around, frowning. “Where is Donut, anyway?”

Grif and Simmons probably think the glance they exchange is a subtle one, but Tucker’s known them both too long to be fooled. His heart plummets straight into the ground. “Whoa, what’s wrong? What happened?”

“Donut’s recon mission ran a little long this morning,” Simmons say, after another half-glance at Grif. “His squad isn’t back yet and we…we lost radio contact.”

“What—are you _kidding_ me?” Tucker finds himself instinctively turning towards the track, but Wash is a quarter mile away, a steel blur in the distance. “What the _fuck,_ Simmons! What are we still doing here? We should be looking for him, we should—”

His thoughts chase themselves wildly through his head each one laced with guilt. He’d known Donut was going on a recon mission at some ungodly hour well before dawn—which, _ridiculous,_ whoever thought to put Donut on a mission involving stealth was a _moron_ —but he’d assumed they weren’t due back just yet.

“It’s probably nothing,” Grif says, striving for casual but only succeeding marginally. “I’m sure he’ll be back any minute. Then you can talk to him all you want about the fake sex you had with Wash.”

“How late is he?” Tucker demands. “Like, five _minutes_ late, or two hours late?”

“Three hours,” Simmons says glumly.

“ _Three_ hours? Three—did you know about this?” Tucker demands as Wash finishes his lap and comes to a slow halt near them. “About Donut?”

Wash paces in tiny circles, hands on his hips as he catches his breath. “What about Donut? Were they not able to get the numbers we needed?”

“Well, that’s something that we _could_ ask them,” Tucker says, “if they were back yet.”

Wash stops walking, glancing between him and Simmons. “Wait, the squad isn’t back yet? Have they radioed in? What happened?”

“Wow, it’s like you guys are soulmates or something,” Grif mutters sarcastically.

Wash glares at him. “Grif. Answer the question.”

“Which one?”

Simmons hastens to answer. Smart move. “That’s the problem. We lost radio contact about five hours ago, just a little before they were due back. No one’s sure why—there were no sounds of a struggle, no hint that they were in trouble. Their signal just…went out.”

“Uh, back to my original question—why are we still _here?_ ” Tucker waves his arms. “We should be looking for them!”

“Well, of course we should!” Tucker turns to see Sarge slowing to a halt next to them. Caboose is still off, jogging in slow circles around the track. “It’s what I’ve been saying all morning! None of this standin’ around waiting crap! It makes for more sense if we—and just where do you think you’re going?”

Wash doesn’t slow in his pointed stalk away from the track. “You should have told me this the second we arrived,” he says over his shoulder, and it’s pretty over the top, but Tucker can’t help but agree.

Grif snorts. “Uh, we couldn’t exactly get a word in edgewise with Tucker here going on about his sex life again.”

“Wash—wait!” Simmons scampers over to Wash, his voice still just barely drifting back to the rest of the group. “Where are you _going?_ ”

“To get some answers.”

“Well, it’s about goddamn time!” Sarge says, and immediately ambles off after them.

Their voices finally trail off as they get farther away. Tucker watches the place where they disappeared, his stomach tying itself in knots as Simmons throws up his hands and stalks back to the group, leaving Sarge and Wash on their own. _He’s fine,_ Tucker tells himself firmly. _Donut’s fine. They’re all fine—_

“Wait.” He whirls to face Grif. “Who else was with him?”

Grif shrugs, picking up a pebble and throwing it across the canyon. “Uh…Patil, Ali, Bitters, and Matthews.”

“Who assigns these missions, anyway?” Tucker snaps. “I mean, Patil can at least keep his mouth shut, but who in their right mind would put _Donut_ on intel? Or _Matthews?_ ”

“I don’t _know_ , Tucker, obviously it wasn’t _me_ …”

It’s a short, sulky work-out session. Caboose is loud and anxious, Simmons is quite possibly even _louder,_ and Tucker is surprised Grif doesn’t pull a muscle with how hard he’s pretending not to give a shit about the whole thing. Tucker sneaks off by himself at one point and tries to send a message to Donut— _way 2 get urself lost asshole_ —but his heart sinks when _SIGNAL OUT OF RANGE_ flashes across his HUD.

“Okay, this is _bullshit,_ ” Tucker announces, striding out from behind the crumbling wall he’d been lurking behind. “C’mon, let’s go see what’s happening.”

No one tries to argue with him. The four of them make their way back into the base and, after some arguing about where to go, head into the conference room.

“ _Ha_ ,” Tucker says triumphantly as they start down the corridor to the sounds of what is unmistakably Wash and Kimball arguing. “Told you they’d be here. Suck it, Red.”

Grif mutters something Tucker can’t quite make out. Probably for the best. The four of them huddle in the doorway of the war room, hesitating on the threshold. Kimball is there in the center of the room, panning through a series of holographic maps with Epsilon floating over her right shoulder, Wash hovering by their left. Carolina is off to the side, clearly in the middle of lecturing Doyle who, Tucker is impressed to see, hasn’t collapsed shaking into a chair.

It takes Tucker a moment to figure out exactly what is so striking about the scene, and he finds his gaze pulled constantly between Wash and Epsilon until he realizes the perfect mirror image they create. They’re both standing inches away from Kimball, arms folded, heads tilted in towards the map. If it weren’t for the marked size difference, they could be twins, in that moment.

“—just really think we should send someone else out there,” Wash is saying tersely. “Really, General, I’m not questioning your decisions, but—”

“Except that’s exactly what you’re doing,” she snaps.

Caboose, Grif and Simmons shove their way into the room, and as Tucker moves to follow them, he finds himself yanked backwards so hard he almost falls over.

He whips around furiously to see Sarge with a finger to his visor, gesturing at him to keep quiet. Tucker glares at him, but continues to follow him down the hallway. “What the fuck are we doing?” he hisses, once they’re safely out of earshot of the meeting room. “And why did you have to nearly take rip my arm out of its socket to do it?!”

“Quite your bitchin’,” Sarge says, dismissive. “I saw the opportune moment and I took it!”

“Opportune moment to do _what?_ ”

“To mount a rescue mission, of course!”

“To mount a—whoa.” Tucker slows his walk and, when Sarge doesn’t follow suit, yanks on his arm to bring him to a halt. “You’re kidding, right? We don’t even know where they _are_.”

Sarge jerks his arm out of Tucker’s grasp. “We ain’t gonna find _that_ out standing around wringing our handkerchiefs, now are we?”

“But…” with a muttered curse, Tucker takes off after him. “Sarge, _wait_. We can’t mount a two-person rescue mission—”

“Sure we can! Isn’t that what you boys when you came to fetch us?”

“Okay, that was different, we knew where you guys were, at least…” something occurs to Tucker, and he frowns suspiciously at Sarge’s back. “And why do you want _me_ to come on it, anyway? Are you forgetting the last time we ran a mission together? It was fucking unbearable.”

Sarge scoffs. “That’s only because you were jealous that Agent Washington propositioned _me_ for a threesome—”

“I was _not jealous!_ Don’t fucking start that again!”

“—and besides, it’s not like I had many options. It was either you, Grif, or Caboose. Caboose is a good kid, but he can’t pull off the kind of stealth this mission requires, and Grif…well, need I start listing Grif’s shortcomings?”

“You really don’t.”

He does anyway. Sarge yammers on and _on_ about Grif’s endless faults all the way down to the landing bay and pauses only to puff up his chest at the Federalist soldier manning the Pelicans and inform him that he’s on a top secret mission— “Important Colonel business, you see.” He moves on to pointing out Simmons’ inadequacies as they stride aboard their chosen Pelican and, with a special vehemence, segways into a long-winded rant about Donut and how “boy’s got good intuition but good _Lord_ , there’s no field voice there at all—he could be standin’ right next to you and feel the need to scream…”

“Uh huh,” Tucker says absently as the Pelican hums to life. “Sarge, _seriously_. Do you even know where we’re going?”

“Of course I do!”

“Well, then do you mind cluing me the fuck in?” He grabs Sarge’s wrist before he can slam the Pelican into gear and take them to who know where. _“Sarge.”_

Sarge tuts impatiently and deigns Tucker with a half-glance in his direction. “Way station. The one where you boys overheard Charon talking on your way to find us.”

“Where Grif found the slurpies?”

“That’s the one.” Sarge flicks a few more switches on the dashboard, and Tucker wonders ominously if he even knows what he’s doing. “They’re still meeting there. The mercs. The Generals put Donut on the mission ‘cause they needed a tracking device in there, and fact is Donut’s got one hell of an arm. He was supposed to lob the son-of-a-bitch right in from a good distance away.”

Tucker stares at him. “How do you know all of this?”

“Because,” Sarge says, slamming the gearshift forward. “I helped plan the damn mission.”

Tucker falls silent as the Pelican creeps forward, and the soldiers who were still milling around in confusion on the runway scatter. “They secured the tracking device,” Sarge says abruptly. “Signal’s reading loud and clear. We just can’t get a read on their Pelican. Could be anywhere! Could be crashed! Could be on the other side of the planet! Could be—”

“Returning back to Armonia as we speak?”

“Could—what?”

“ _Look_.” Tucker jabs his finger at the windshield of their own Pelican. “Uh, I think that might be them.”

They stare at each other until Sarge slams their own Pelican back into reverse and Tucker runs around flicking off headlights and shutting hatchways. “Nevermind, we won’t be needing that after all!” Sarge calls as the two of them book it off the Pelican and run towards the one descending.

“It’s cool,” Tucker said. “It’s cool, I don’t think anyone noticed we were even gone….”

This happy illusion is shattered as Kimball’s voice sounds across the landing bay. “Just what the _hell_ do the two of you think _you’re_ doing?”

Tucker turns to see everyone they’d left behind in the war room storming towards them. “Look, the ship’s back,” he says brightly, waving in the general direction of the descending Pelican.

We are aware of that, _thank_ you Captain Tucker,” Kimball snaps. “What we—Sarge, _get back here!_ We still don’t know why we lost contact with them. We don’t know who’s on that ship!”

Sarge doesn’t slow, but he does pull his shotgun off of his back. A quick glance around confirms that everyone else is reacting similarly. They wait with baited breath as the Pelican lands, the ramp opens, and—

Tucker almost wilts in relief when he sees Donut come ambling off the Pelican. His helmet is off and there’s no small amount of blood in his hair, but it seems to be mostly dry. Ali has one of Donut’s arms slung over his shoulders, and he jerks them both to a stop when he sees the number of guns pointed at them. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, it’s us!”

“Sarge, Agent Washington—check the Pelican,” Kimball says tersely, and everyone freezes for several minutes while they hasten to do so.

“It’s clear,” Wash says a few minutes later, ducking back off of the ship.

Ali continues helping Donut back down the Pelican ramp, and Tucker moves forward to pull Donut’s other arm over his shoulders. “Oh, don’t be silly Tucker, I’m fine!” Donut says brightly. “Just a little bump on the head!”

“Yeah yeah,” Tucker says, making his voice as nonchalant as he possibly can. “Let’s go get you a band aid. Where’s your helmet?”

“Matthews has it,” Donut says. “He’s a good kid.”

“Right…” Tucker glances over Donut’s head to frown at Ali. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Patil gesturing to Kimball and Doyle. “What happened?”

“Well,” Ali says with a sigh, “we got the tracking device on, no problem. The fuckers didn’t even realize we were there. We got back to the Pelican and they were waiting for us. The bird took some heavy fire—shorted out our GPS tracking—but we pulled through.” He pauses, then adds grudgingly, “That Bitters guy. He can fly, alright.”

They make it to the infirmary and get Donut situated with Doctor Grey. Tucker sits on the bench outside and Ali sits with him, long after Kimball arrives to debrief him, long after Matthews arrives to hand over Donut’s helmet. The silence between them is comfortable and when Ali finally speaks, his words crack through it like a whip.

“Who’s Doc?”

Tucker glances up sharply turning to see Ali’s dark eyes boring into his. “What?”

“Doc.” Ali rubs absently at some of the blood on his shoulder guard. Donut’s blood. “He talks about him a lot. They a thing?”

“I…yeah.” Tucker stares at the infirmary doors, guilt twisting his stomach into knots. “They were a thing.”

“Were?”

Tucker shifts uncomfortably. “We…aren’t really sure what happened to him. When we all got split up—we thought he was with Donut's group, they thought he was with ours. Simmons thinks something went wrong with the future cubes, so…”

“He could be anywhere.”

“Yeah.” Tucker glances at Ali. “Is, uh. Is he upset about it?”

Ali shrugs, leaning his head back against the wall. “Eh. Hard to tell with Donut, ya know? But…I don’t think so. Seems to think they’ll find each other again.” He looks at Tucker. “Far as I can tell, anyway. I don’t know him as well as you.”

“Sounds to me like you know him pretty well, dude.”

“He’s a good guy.” Ali nudges Tucker’s shoulder a little. “You all are. I guess.”

“Yeah yeah, whatever…”

But he looks at Ali, really looks at him: at the eyes so dark they’re nearly black, the scar that starts at his temple and stretches all the way to his collar, the only mark on his smooth, umber skin. “Thanks, for uh…having his back. And…listening to him.” Tucker clears his throat. “I should’ve been doing that.”

Another shrug. “He just likes to talk. Tell stories. I like to listen.” He kicks his boot over at Tucker’s. “Let’s hear some of yours.”

Tucker laughs a little, then side-eyes him. “ _Well._ You wanna hear about the fucking awesome sex I had this morning?”

Ali perks up in interest. “Hell yeah I do, shit man, I’m not getting _any_ …”

They sit there, watching the infirmary doors and swapping stories. Ali is a good listener, Tucker realizes, and an even better storyteller himself.  Tucker tells Ali about the desert, and Ali tells him about how he was a budding artist before the bombs dropped, and he passes over his datapad and Tucker flips through his drawings in awe— “Dude, you should not be in the fucking army, this is some Picasso level shit—” and finally, _finally,_ Dr. Grey gives them permission to see Donut. Tucker examines the stitches on his head and tries not to hover and Donut chatters away brightly, and Tucker wonders just how many more close calls they can take before their luck runs out.

* * *

It’s only early evening when Tucker meets Wash in their usual training room to do some more knife training, but Tucker feels as if he hasn’t slept in three days. He feels sick to his stomach every time he thinks of Donut with that bright smile on his face, waving them all off. _“I’m fine, guys, really! Just a little bump on the head.”_

This time.

God. Talk about melodramatic. He really _has_ been spending too much time with Wash lately. Tucker shoves his worries down deep and brightens when he pushes the door open to see Wash already in his fatigues. If that isn’t a sight for sore eyes, Tucker doesn’t what is.

Wash gives him a look when Tucker expresses this sentiment. It’s more exasperated than turned on, so Tucker takes his helmet off nice and slow and while that does get Wash’s eyes to track the motion of his hair in a mesmerized sort of way, it doesn’t exactly get Wash to jump his bones.

Tucker sighs, but gets to work unsnapping his armor. “Why are we training in our civvies? We haven’t done that in ages.”

“Exactly. I thought it was something worth cycling back to. Besides, I was thinking we could do something a little different.”

Tucker pauses in the act of lifting off his chest plate to wink at Wash. “Oh-ho! Well, in _that_ case…”

Wash holds out a set of training clothes for Tucker—still packing his goddamn clothes, apparently—as he moves to unzip his Kevlar suit. It seems a little silly to put on clothes that Tucker’s hoping he’s just going to be ripping right back off, but he puts them on anyway and sits down as close as he can possibly get to Wash. Wash doesn’t pull away or flinch when their legs touch, but he does snag Tucker’s hand when he trails it up the inside of Wash’s thigh. “Tucker. Come on.”

Tucker flushes, a sharp and unexpected hurt lancing through him, and he propels himself to his feet. “Ugh, _see_ , I knew you were gonna get all weird!”

Wash stares at him, looking almost bewildered enough for it to be convincing at Tucker’s outburst. “What?”

“I knew you were gonna get all weird and distant after we fucked!”

“What—I’m not getting _distant!_ Tucker, we are _training_ —I know you had a bad day but—”

“Look, if you don’t want this to be a thing you can jus _t say_ so, you don’t have to—”

He promptly shuts the fuck up because Wash reaches up, fists a hand in his t-shirt, and yanks Tucker back down to him so fiercely that he half falls in Wash’s lap. Wash’s mouth his hot and insistent, and it’s all Tucker can do to grip tightly onto his shoulders and try not to fall over on the spot. He holds on and lets Wash kiss the fucking life out of him, and he’s gasping and wide-eyed when Wash pulls back.

Wash presses three soft kisses to his cheek and pulls away enough to look Tucker in the eye. “Let’s get a few things _straight,_ ” he says, and holy shit, Tucker will listen to anything Wash says if he does it in that fucking voice. “I _do_ want you. I’m not _going a_ nywhere. But right now, we are training. I am trying to teach you something that can save your life, and I need you to _pay attention._ Are we clear?”

“Yes,” Tucker breathes. “Yes, _sir_.”

Wash kisses him again, softer this time, before standing. “And you say _I’m_ dramatic.”

Tucker huffs. “Okay, look, it’s been a weird fucking day—that whole thing with Donut was fucked, and I _hate_ training these knives without armor. I hate it.”

“Which is exactly why we have to do it,” Wash says. “I was thinking we could try something new. Work with metal knives today.”

Tucker straightens in alarm. “Wait, _what?_ Do the evasion drill with real knives? Are you fucking crazy?”

“I didn’t say _real_ knives, I said _metal_ knives. With _blunted edges_.” Wash gives him a look. “I wouldn’t do this drill with sharp knives, Tucker.”

“Shit, I don’t know dude, you like to spar without fucking mouth guards and shit, so….” Tucker frowns. “How would that help? It’s the same shit we’ve been doing, just with metal instead of rubber.”

“You’ve been doing remarkably well with the rubber knives,” Wash says, moving to rummage in his bag. “But the rubber knives are clearly fake. I think it would help to see how you react to something that looks real.”

So they’re back on that again. “Okay, but I _know_ they’re not real. It’s not going to make a difference—”

“You’re willing to try it, then?”

Tucker’s eyes track his movements as Wash pulls the knives out. “Uh, are you sure those aren’t real?”

“Of course I’m sure, Tucker.” He holds them out to Tucker, who sincerely hopes Wash didn’t see the way he just flinched. “Check them yourself.”

“That’s okay,” Tucker says quickly. “I trust you.”

“I appreciate that,” Wash says, “but I’d prefer that you check them anyway.”

Their eyes lock, and Tucker suddenly thinks that he might not be the only person these lessons are difficult for. He takes the knives from Wash and runs his fingers tentatively over the edges. They are blunt, the edges and tips rounded and smooth. They’re not that much different from the rubber knives really, but the way the metal flashes and catches the light _is_ rather unnerving.

“Fine,” he blurts before he can think too hard on it. “Fine, whatever. Let’s do it.”

He ignores the calculating look Wash gives him and lunges into the bag, grabbing that stupid red chalk that Wash seems to have an endless supply of and coating the knives himself. Once the knives are good and covered, he stands and takes a place in the center of the training room.

“You ready?” Wash asks. He twirls one of the knives in his hand in an absent-minded sort of way. Tucker tries not to focus on the way it gleams in the light.

“Yep,” Tucker says, and gestures impatiently.

Wash wastes no time as usual, and Tucker barely jumps out of the way of the first slash. The gesture is wild and exaggerated, and Tucker’s overcorrection almost gets him a slash across the throat in the first five seconds. He tries to let his eyes go a little unfocused the way Wash had taught him, but his vision keeps zeroing in on the bright knife as he tracks it.

It costs him. Wash catches the edge of the knife against his arm and draws a chalk mark from Tucker’s shoulder to the crook of his elbow. The metal is cold and flat, but it doesn’t hurt. Obviously. It’s not _real._ There’s no reason for him to be freaked out, there’s no pain, none at all, except there hadn’t been any pain when Felix had stuck that knife in his gut, either. It had been so sharp and neat that Tucker hadn’t even realized what had happened until Epsilon screamed inside his head. The pain had hit him all at the same time once he’d glanced down and seen all of that red, glistening and wet against his Kevlar suit, red and black and blue until _everything_ was blue and he realized that he was flat on his back staring up at the sky—

Blue, blue, blue. Wash’s eyes are boring into his, mouth moving with no words coming out. Tucker blinks hard, confused at why Wash is so close and why he looks so concerned and why everything feels muted, like there’s a fog inside Tucker’s head. His hand reaches out of its own accord, and the solid feel of Wash’s chest beneath his hand has the sound rushing back.

“—need to breathe,” Wash is saying, and Tucker realizes with horror that he’s backed himself right up against the wall and is shaking, actually fucking _shaking_.

“Jesus Christ!” he bursts, and curls the hand on Wash’s chest into his shirt. The other he rakes through his dreads, torn between anger and humiliation. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m fine, I’m _fine_ —”

Wash folds his own hand around Tucker’s, and Tucker realizes the hand he’s clenched in Wash’s shirt is trembling too. Good _God,_ give it another minute or two and he’ll be swooning. He gives it up and takes a few short, deep breathes, trying to get his goddamn nerves under control.

“It’s alright,” Wash tells him quietly, which somehow makes everything better and worse all at once. “It’s normal to be—”

“If you tell me it’s _normal to be afraid_ —”

“Tucker—”

“Thought I was _past_ this,” Tucker says abruptly. He can’t quite meet Wash’s eye when he says it. “Thought I was— _fuck_ , this is _so stupid_.”

“It’s not.” Wash slides his hand to Tucker’s wrist and tugs him away from the wall. “You’re okay. Come on.”

The training session does not improve. If anything, it gets worse. Within thirty minutes, Tucker is covered in chalk and nearly pulling out his hair in frustration. “Fuck, fuck _fuck!_ Why can’t I fucking _get_ this!”

“Alright, alright.” Wash pulls Tucker’s hands away from his hair. “Let’s try something else.”

Tucker follows him reluctantly. He watches with his arms folded tightly across his chest as Wash reaches into his gym bag and pulls out yet another case of knives. “Waaaait a second. _Those_ are real, aren’t they?”

“They are,” Wash says calmly, selecting one and hefting it in his hand.

“Okay, unless you want this chalk to be actual _blood_ then…”

Wash glances up sharply at that. “What? _No_. We’re not—just wait.”

He puts the knife back and Tucker watches as he sets his datapad on the floor. After a few taps, something big and bright projects itself onto the wall across the room: one large target, and several smaller ones.

Tucker looks from the target to Wash, confused, until Wash picks up another knife. He stands, flips the knife so that he’s holding it by the blade, and flings it across the room. It hits the wall with a _thunk_ and rests, quivering, in the center of the target.

“Dude,” Tucker says. It’s all he can manage. “ _Dude!_ Do that again!”

Wash’s mouth twitches in the beginnings of a smile. He grabs another knife, steps backwards several feet, and hits another perfect bulls eye, right next to the first knife.

“Show off,” Tucker says with a grin. “What the fuck! That’s _so_ badass, can I do that?”

“That’s the plan.” Wash gestures, and Tucker goes to him. “Now. Knife throwing is all about depth perception—that’s how you decide if you should throw it by the handle, or the blade.”

He gathers up several knives and walks until they’re only three feet from the target. “Here, you’re close enough to hold the knife by the handle. It’s all a matter of body positioning and hand eye coordination. You need to keep your arm straight and…”

He throws the knife so hard that the blade sinks halfway up the hilt. “That’s some aim you got there, babe,” Tucker can’t resist quipping, because come _on_.

Wash gives him a look, but doesn’t say anything, just moves back further. “At this range, I’m approximately six feet away. I want to throw the knife from the _blade_ at this distance. Six feet farther back, it’s the handle. Six feet farther, it’s the blade. And so on, and so forth.”

“Jesus. How do you know how far back you are?”

“Depth perception,” Wash says again. “It’s not as hard as it sounds. It’s just practice. Finding points of comparison in your environment.”

“I don’t know, man, it seems kind of like magic to me.”

“It’s not.” Wash flips another knife in his hand and holds it out to him, handle first. “Come on. You try.”

Tucker hesitates. He supposes the whole thing _is_ kind of badass, and he thinks that if there’s a chance that he looks even half as sexy as Wash does hurling knives around, then this just might be a skill worth learning. “Fine, fine, fine. Let’s fucking do it.”

His first knife smacks sideways into the wall and clatters unceremoniously to the floor. His second one doesn’t even _make_ it to the wall. The third one he drops at his feet. He doesn’t like the sound the knives make as they fall, but the weight of the throwing blades feels nice in his hand, and Wash’s body is strong and reassuring when he stands behind Tucker and adjusts his arm and shoulders and hips.

When Tucker sticks his first knife, he whoops and runs around the training room in a victory lap. It’s not a bulls-eye, but it’s _on_ the goddamn target. “That’s Felix’s fucking shoulder, right there,” he crows, snagging his own datapad to snap a picture. “Oh man, wait, I gotta show this to Grif…”

Tucker sends the picture over to Grif and whirls back to face Wash, who is watching him fondly. Before Wash can lose the expression, Tucker aims the datapad at him to snap a picture. Wash blinks, startled, and makes a swipe for the datapad. “Did you just…give me that!”

Tucker holds it out of his reach. “Dude, no way. That should like, be your profile picture on Basebook.”

“I don’t _have_ Basebook.”

“Yeah, I know, but you should…”

Wash rolls his eyes, but when Tucker flips the datapad around to take a pictures of them, he doesn’t resist. “Man, we are _so_ fucking hot,” Tucker says in approval, examining the photo. “We could make serious bank pumping out some amateur porn.”

“We are not pumping out amateur porn, Tucker…”

Tucker doesn’t stick every knife after that, but he sticks at least half of them. Wash is practically beaming at the end, and Tucker soaks it in: the smile, the knives in the wall. It’s a start, alright.

It’s a god _damn_ good start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //jazz hands WELCOME TO PART TWO FRIENDS!
> 
> thank you for all of the kudos, comments, and continued support! another reminder that i am @[littlefists](http://littlefists.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, for those of you who haven't made your way over there yet and feel like saying hi. 
> 
> oooooh let's look at some more fanart shall we? //heart eyes:  
> >>> [Wash & Tucker after the long night](http://littlefists.tumblr.com/post/147708383349/thehoundunit-papanorth-my-name-tucker) by [papanorth](http://papanorth.tumblr.com/)  
> >>> [Wash & Tucker after the long night version 2](http://hammeredpaint.tumblr.com/post/147774981025/from-salt-sanfords-littlefists-tuckington) by [hammeredpaint](http://hammeredpaint.tumblr.com)  
> >>> [Wash & Carolina have that talk](http://qrovvbranvven.tumblr.com/post/147828133026/he-cant-hide-the-break-in-his-voice-this-time) by [qrovvbranvven](http://qrovvbranvven.tumblr.com)  
> >>> [Wash & Tucker after the long night version 3](http://cleverest-url.tumblr.com/post/148219075410/wip-for-thats-right-more-put-my-guns-in-the) by [cleverest-url](http://cleverest-url.tumblr.com)  
> >>> [Wash & Tucker finally laying it all on the goddamn table](http://guiltypleasuretrashblog.tumblr.com/post/148863509786/dat-scene) by [guiltypleasuretrashblog](http://guiltypleasuretrashblog.tumblr.com)
> 
> THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH, LOOK AT ALL THESE BEAUTIFUL ILLUSTRATIONS JFC
> 
> ALSO, i have been meaning to say this for like a million chapters now: my headcanon for Tucker coming to terms with his sexuality/what happened in the desert is very largely (read: this is more or less my headcanon) based off of [Displaying This Emotion Can ENDANGER Your Life](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5438495) by [Egg](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eggstasy/pseuds/eggstasy) shoutout to egg for her genius headcanons and genius fic and also for screaming with me about tuckington on a regular basis MWUAH
> 
> also shoutout once again to my beta [Melissa](http://hammeredpaint.tumblr.com), for her tireless work editing my nightmarish rough drafts, and for editing my smut in the diner before work/swapping ideas and stories about chorus and the LTs with me/giving me real talk when i need it. LOVE YOU GIRLIE.
> 
> ALRIGHT LET'S KICK PART TWO INTO GEAR. (we know this is rated explicit for more than just sexytimes right? we're all reading the tags yes? //nervous laughter)


	17. Chapter 17

The soldiers move below him like tiny ants.

Wash adjusts the scope on his sniper rifle and shifts his weight infinitesimally. There’s a rock wedged up under his right thigh, and it wouldn’t be a big deal for him to move it—Charon’s soldiers are far enough away that they won’t hear him—but he’s trying to set a good example. The soldiers under his command have done nothing but fidget and bicker since their arrival at this outpost three hours ago. Fidgeting he can handle. Complaining he’s used to, but the _bickering_ —

“Would you hold still already?!”

“I am holding still!”

“You are _not_ —I can’t see shit with you knocking my scope all over the place, hold it still—”

“Bet you’d be able to see a little better if I kicked your ass right over the side of this cliff, how ‘bout that?”

Wash reflects dully that he _should_ be used to the bickering by now as well, seeing as it makes up three quarters of the Reds and Blues’ conversations, but Wash can’t help feeling like that’s _different,_ somehow. At the end of the day, his guys would take bullets for each other. They’d deny it vehemently after, insisting it was an accident or coincidence, but he knows better. Listening to the Feds and News gripe at each other has Wash pretty well convinced that Prajapati actually _would_ shove Sabine off the cliff if she thought she could get away with it.

They’ve been out here for several hours, keeping an eye on one of the way stations where they’re been a lot of activity. Wash and his squad were monitoring activity from a higher vantage point, while a few of their other soldiers, led by Captain Perry, tried to get close enough to listen below. 

“Be quiet,” he hisses, and Prajapati and Sabine both falter. “You’re going to give away our position.”

“You mean the position that’s _ten million miles away_ from where the action is?” Prajapati mutters sourly. “Yeah, wouldn’t want to do _that_ …”

Wash groans to himself as Sabine starts sputtering. “Oh, _I_ see, _that’s_ how you speak to your Commanding Officer? Agent Washington deserves our _respect_ —”

“I never said I didn’t respect him! Come on, Agent Washington is _cool_ —”

Wash grins to himself at the thought of the looks on the sim troopers’ faces if they ever heard anyone describe him as cool. It was a shame that none of them were here, not only so that they could hear that, but because they had a way of getting these soldiers to ease up in a way that he did not.

“—sure as shit don’t respect _you_ —”

“Oh, come on Falguni!” Britton pipes up over the radio. “Sabine’s not so bad! You should _hear_ some of her theories of Grey’s Anatomy, they’re pure _genius!_ ”

Wash rolls his eyes. “Britton, status report. How are things over there?”

“The same as they were ten minutes ago.” Banks, one of the Feds he’d paired up with Britton, sighs. “They’re not talking about anything important at all.”

“Oh, _now_ who’s speaking disrespectfully to their commanding officer?” Prajapati mutters sourly.

“What—I wasn’t speaking disrespectfully to Agent Washington! I was merely stating the facts! _Agent Washington, the sky is blue._ Like that. Was _that_ disrespectful?”

“Enough,” Perry says. Wash is somewhat mollified to hear that Perry sounds just as thoroughly done with this mission as Wash is. “Christ, will you all just _knock it off_ already?”

“The newbie bitch _started_ it—”

“The newbie bitch is gonna finish it, too!”

Britton snickers. “Ooooh, _good_ one Falguni.”

Wash sighs. “Private Britton—”

“Sorry, Agent Washington…oh! Perry! I think—”

“ _Captain_ Perry—”

“Right—that—I think I see a way to get closer over on my side. Might be able to sneak in and get a recording all _ninja_ like.”

Wash readjusts the scope on his visor until he locates Britton’s white and gold armor. She’s shimmying forward on her belly under a rocky outcrop, just outside of where the pirates are convening. “That’s awfully close, Britton. Are you even sure you can fit under there?”

“I can do it, I swear! I’ll be real quiet!”

Wash hesitates. “Well—alright, move up. I’ll cover you.”

Prajapati shoulders Sabine out of the way of their shared scope. “BB, be careful, that tunnel is _sooo_ tiny and you’re _really_ close to the guards….”

“Banks, hold position,” Perry orders. “I’ll move up to cover her.”

The three of them watch as Perry slides around the northwestern wall, his back pressed tight to the rocks. The pirates are clustered together in the center of the way station and, from what Wash can tell, arguing vehemently. Britton wriggles carefully underneath the rocks. “I’m in,” she breathes. “Got my external mic going. Oh man, this is good—they’re talking about supplies, maybe we can actually get some _tampons_ on the next run…”

Wash watches anxiously, but she seems well-concealed, and the pirates aren’t paying attention until all at once, they start to disperse. Several of them move out towards their grouping of Warthogs.

“We have movement,” Wash says. “They’re moving towards their Warthogs—Britton, stay down until they pass.”

“Captain Perry, you guys gotta go,” Britton breathes. “They’re gonna drive right past you and Banks and you’ve got nowhere to hide!”

“Great,” Perry mutters. “Alright, I’ll swing around the southwestern entrance and meet up with you.”

“No—I can’t get out of here until they’re all gone. You gotta _go_ , I’ll catch up—”

“No you will not,” Prajapati says loudly. “Don’t be _stupid_ —”

“I’m not being stupid, _Volleyball,_ I’m being a _hero_ , so—”

“Perry, get your squad out of there now,” Wash says sharply. “Britton, you’re clear, they’ve moved passed your position, you’re clear.”

“On it,” Perry says crisply. “Not bad, Britton. Did you get the recording?”

“Who gives a fuck about the recording!” Prajapati’s voice comes high over the radio. “BB, get out of there _now._ ”

“I’m going!”” Britton hisses, and they watch as she wriggles out from the outcropping and pushes to a slow stand, creeping backwards. “Just give me—”

In her retreat through the narrow tunnel, Britton’s shoulder catches hard against the wall. Wash inhales sharply as the guards whirl around to face her direction, one of them reaching for something at his belt. “Britton, go!”

“Uh-oh,” Britton whispers over the radio, and suddenly the world is filled with noise.

The explosion is so loud that it very nearly leaves Wash’s ears ringing from all the way up on the cliff. It’s still not loud enough to drown out Prajapati’s howl, her _NO!_ so loud that Wash is convinced Charon’s soldiers must’ve heard it. Before he can utter a word to silence her, she lunges forward and leaps off the cliff.

“PRAJAPATI— _dammit!_ ” Wash pushes himself to his feet, snapping the rifle to his back. “Sabine, come on!”

“Come on and do _what,_ go jumping over the cliff like a—”

Her words trail off into a scream as Wash grabs her arm and vaults off the overhang after Prajapati. The drop is steep but not sheer, and he keeps a firm grip on Sabine as they skid down the hill. Prajapati is about twenty-five feet ahead of them and sprinting fast towards the way station. Wash can make out several indistinct forms moving frantically through the smoke, but little else.

“Cover her!” he shouts to Sabine, as Prajapati barrels into the fray and stabs a knife clean into the throat of the nearest pirate. He brings his own rifle up to bear, mowing down the other two approaching her from the left.

The _KA-POW_ of Sabine’s shotgun explodes next to him, and another pirate falls. Through the smoke, Wash can see Banks grappling with two more. He casts his gaze around desperately, but Perry and Britton are nowhere to be seen.

The fighting doesn’t last long. The pirates clearly weren’t expecting another group, and in less than five minutes, they’re all standing around staring at each other as the smoke dissipates. “Clear the area,” Wash says tersely, and they fan out, guns up. He fiddles with his radio frequency. “Captain Perry. Private Britton. _Do you copy?_ ”

Perry’s voice comes tight and exhausted over the radio. “I’ve got her. She’s alive but she’s…” Perry’s hesitation is brief, but it’s enough to tie Wash’s stomach into knots. “ _Wash_. She lost her arm.”

Prajapati takes off like a shot without a word, and Wash spins to the other two. “Banks, get a Warthog ready. Sabine, with me. Perry, we’re coming to you. Is she stable?”

 “Working on it,” Perry says tensely.

They all turn the corner to see Perry bending over Britton’s weakly stirring form. Her arm has been blown off just above the elbow, the dirt around her body stained dark and wet. Wash’s HUD lights up with warning signs as his medical suite locks onto Britton: CONDITION CRITICAL, BLOOD LOSS, MINOR HEAD TRAUMA. He barely has time to drop to his knees and get a firm hold on Britton’s shoulders as Perry gives his biofoam canister a few shakes, and injects the can into Britton’s the bleeding stump where Britton’s arm once was.

Britton jolts back to a full consciousness with a howl as the biofoam seals off the blood vessels and capillaries in her arm. She thrashes beneath Wash’s hands, and he hates himself more than a little at the sob that rips through her scream. “Stop! _Stooooop!_ It hurts _, it hurts!_ ”

“I know. You’re okay, Private, you’re okay.” Wash half-turns. “Prajapati, I need you to unsnap the healing unit from my chestplate and give it to Britton.”

She’s on it before he’s finished speaking, hands steady as she unsnaps his healing unit and affixes it to Britton’s armor. Britton relaxes beneath his hands almost immediately, her screams petering off into sobs. “M-my arm,” she gasps. “I-I-I—Falguni—my _arm_ —”

Prajapati tugs the helmet off of her head to reveal Britton’s tearstained face. “Britton,” Wash says quietly. “You’re okay. We’re going to get you back to the capital.”

She nods, her eyes already beginning fog over as the painkillers pump through her system. “C-c-can we take my arm, too?”

“We can take your arm,” Wash says, then glances at Perry. “Banks should be here any moment with a Warthog. Captain Perry, carry her. I’ll cover us and—”

“No!” Prajapati lunges forward as Perry lifts Britton into his arms. Her hands fasten protectively over Britton’s good shoulder. “No! You give her to _me_ , I’ve got her—she’s _my_ teammate—”

“We’re all teammates now,” Perry says quietly.

Prajapati laughs, a wild, vicious sound. “No, we’re not. _We’re not._ I’ll carry her.”

“This is going to go much faster if I—”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from Sabine as Prajapati takes out her gun and levels it at Perry’s head. “If you don’t hand her over in the next five seconds I’ll blow your Fed brains out all over your teammates. _Give. Her. To. Me_.”

“Do it, Perry,” Wash undertones, and after a half glance in his direction, Perry nods.

“Alright. I’ll put her on your shoulders. Fireman’s carry. Watch her arm—”

“I know,” Prajapati snaps. “I know how to do a _fireman’s carry_ , jackass. Maybe you should take some fucking _notes._ ”

As it turns out, she does. Wash is more than a little impressed at the easy way she adjusts Britton’s weight on her shoulders and stalks off, gun still held securely in one hand.

“Warthogs are all fucked up,” Banks announces, almost running into Prajapati as she turns the corner. He has his hand pressed tight to a profusely bleeding arm, but seems otherwise uninjured. “Damaged in the explosion. What a bunch of rubbish, aren’t these guys supposed to have top-notch equipment?”

“They did until we took it all,” Sabine says. Her gaze tracks Britton. “How are we going to get out of here?”

“We’re going to walk, of course,” Prajapati calls over her shoulder, and after a shrug, they all follow her.

It’s at least a mile to their own Warthogs, but she doesn’t falter once, and when she sets Britton down in the back, the movement is gentle and controlled. Wash sends a message back to Armonia— _all accounted for, we have injured_ —and climbs into the same Warthog as Britton. Prajapati is sitting with her in the back, Britton’s head cradled in her lap. She’s barely conscious, face pale and eyelids fluttering.

“Think she’s in shock,” Prajapati says stiffly, maneuvering Britton’s helmet back onto her head. “We gotta—gotta keep her helmet on. Keep the temperature modulators working. They don’t work unless all of the armor is on.”

“Yes, that’s true—” Wash trails off, glancing at her in surprise as Sabine climbs into the driver’s seat. “How do you know that?”

“Bugs taught me,” Prajapati murmurs, clutching Britton’s arm to her chest. “Taught me some—some medical stuff.”

“Who…” Wash trails off. Not important. “Never mind. Let’s keep her talking.”

He turns around to Sabine, who has a death grip on the wheel, staring straight ahead. “Get us there fast,” he says in an undertone, and she nods stiffly.

He’s not so great at the talking, and never has been in situations like this, but as with everything else that’s been thrown in her face today, Prajapati handles the situation without hesitation.

“—the time Bitters got his laces caught on the conveyor belt?”

“—yeah and we—”

“—damn straight BB, _damn_ straight—”

“—‘cept not—”

“—oh _stop,_ she’s not a secret love you know—”

The conversation is thready and weak on Britton’s end, but Prajapati manages to keep her engaged on the tense ride back. What he’s hearing is light and airy nonsense, but underneath it all he hears the bracing, the goodbyes, the _remember when we did this, in case we never do it again?_

Wash is no stranger to such conversations.

* * *

When Sabine finally drives the Warthog into their bay, Wash can see Dr. Grey and Kimball waiting in the entrance, along with several other soldiers. Wash swings himself out of the Warthog before Sabine even brings it to a complete stop, turning around to grab Britton. Prajapati is already moving to swing her onto her shoulders again, and Wash moves to stop her. “P— _Falguni._ _Let_ me. I need you to give Britton’s arm to Kimball, and then go get Captain Simmons and tell him what happened.”

She considers him for a long moment, and Wash marvels at how a girl probably half his age looks harder than South ever did. He takes it as a compliment when she finally nods and takes off, and he scoops up Britton’s body. She’s limp and still in his arms and so very, very small. He ignores the sick feeling in his stomach at the sight of her severed arm clutched in Kimball’s arms, who has appeared on his other side, and carries her towards Dr. Grey.

“What happened?” Kimball asks tensely as they begin to walk.

“Grenade,” Wash says. “We—she was gathering intel and she got too close—couldn’t get out in time.” The sickening feeling grows, guilt twisting in his stomach. “We—I should’ve—”

“Not the first amputation we’ve seen, Agent Washington,” Kimball says, shouldering open the door to the infirmary. “Not the first by a long shot.”

“Place her on the bed, Wash,” Dr. Grey says. “Give the arm to Pickles. Pickles—put that arm on ice.”

 _Pickles,_ Wash thinks blankly. Ridiculous name. He gives himself a little shake as Pickles, presumably, takes the arm from Kimball. “Emily—is—”

“I’ll know once I’ve had a change to get in there,” Dr. Grey says, then glances between him and Kimball. “I know you both know what I’m about to say.”

“I’m not leaving,” Kimball says firmly, and turns to settle herself against the wall in the corner. Wash gets the feeling that she’s stood in this spot many, many, many times before.

The feeling intensifies when Dr. Grey gives a resigned sigh and turns to him. “Washington, hallway. Now.”

With a final look at Britton, Wash nods, backing out the door. He takes a seat on one of the benches lining the infirmary hallway. It’s deserted, and after a moment, he removes his helmet and leans forward to bury his head in his hands, sucking in a breath. A dull, buzzing disbelief flickers around inside his skull. He’s lost soldiers before—men and women he was responsible for, but this, this—

_Fifteen, sir._

He stands abruptly, pacing up and down the hallway. _Fifteen, fifteen, fifteen._ High school. Fifteen meant high school and extracurricular activities and first crushes, not bombs and blood and amputated limbs. She was young, they were _all_ too young. He shouldn’t have let her go off on her own, no matter _how_ ready he thought she was. _He_ should’ve been the one down there skulking around in the thick of things, not far away on a hilltop where he couldn’t help until it was too late. He should’ve told her to get out sooner. He should’ve—

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he almost misses Prajapati and Simmons striding down the hallway towards him. Simmons has his helmet clenched tightly under one arm, his face pale and sickly. “Volleyball says Britton lost her arm,” he says blankly. “Is—that true?”

Wash nods, gesturing pointlessly towards the infirmary doors. “Dr. Grey’s operating on her now. She’s seeing if she can reattach—”

Prajapati barrels through the doorway, dragging Simmons with her. “No loved ones allowed in the operating room!” Dr. Grey screeches as the door flies open. The door swings shut behind them and though Wash can’t make out any of their words, no one comes back out again. He has a sudden and vivid image of Kimball, Simmons, and Prajapati all standing in that tiny corner, and has to choke back a wildly inappropriate urge to laugh.

 “What happened? _What happened?_ ”

Wash glances up as Tucker comes skidding around the corner so quickly that he almost bounces off the opposing wall. He’s only got about half of his armor on, and there’s a look of terror on his face that has Wash moving to meet him. “Tucker—everyone is—what are you doing?”

Tucker skids up to him and starts padding around his midsection, examining his hands as they pull away. He fumbles his hands around Wash’s neck, slides a hand through his hair, examines it, and then to Wash’s surprise, gives him a shove. “What the _fuck_ , Wash!”

Wash blinks, running a hand through his own hair in confusion. “Uh…what?”

Tucker drops onto the bench, glaring up at him. “You scared the _shit_ out of me! All I heard was ‘ _the mission’s gone bad’_ and no one seemed to know any details, and then you weren’t answering your _radio_ or your _texts_ and I thought—Jesus _Christ,_ Wash!”

“I’m fine,” Wash says quickly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t have my helmet on…”

“Yeah, I can _see that_ …” Tucker eyes him. “You sure you’re not like, hemorrhaging into your chest cavity and trying to put on a brave face?”

“I wouldn’t _do_ that, Tucker.”

Tucker looks at him so incredulously that Wash folds his arms over his chest defensively. “I wouldn’t.”

“Uh, _yes_ you fucking would, are you serious? Jesus.” Tucker clenches his hands in his lap. “Okay, so if you’re fine, I take it that means someone else kicked it?”

The forced callousness in his voice makes something in Wash’s chest ache. Wash sits down next to him and, after a moment of hesitation, folds a hand over Tucker’s. “No one died, but uh…Britton…she…”

Tucker glances up sharply, and Wash finds himself unable to meet his piercing gaze. “She lost her arm,” he mutters to his lap instead. “Grenade blew it clean off.”

He watches as Tucker’s hand clenches tightly around his. “Ah, fuck.”

“Yeah,” Wash says, squeezing back. “Fuck.”

Tucker doesn’t tell him that it’s okay, for which Wash is grateful. “Is everyone else okay?” he asks after a while.

Wash nods. “They’re okay.”

“For now,” Tucker mutters, and presses his head back into the wall. “Fuck me, I’m just—I’m fucking terrified like, _all_ the time, you know?”

“I know,” Wash says, pressing his head back against the wall as well. “I know.”

Tucker sighs. “I just—I feel like I can’t fucking control _anything_ anymore. It’s like, everyone’s all split up, going off on these fucking missions and I can’t—I _can’t_ like, keep an eye on Grif and make sure he’s fucking paying attention, and I _can’t_ tell Caboose that a firefight isn’t the place to eat cookies, and I _can’t_ make sure you’re not, like, bleeding out on a Pelican somewhere and…” He clenches his hands tighter still around Wash’s. “Everything’s out of my fucking _hands,_ you know?”

“I know,” Wash says, again, and they sit there like that, staring at the infirmary door until the hallway starts to fill with members of Simmons’ squad, and other soldiers.  In what has to be the world’s worst timing, Prajapati pushes through the infirmary doors at the same moment that several of the Feds start down the hallway.

“No,” she says fiercely, hands clenched into fists. “No! You _can’t_ be here—you can’t—”

Sabine shoulders her way to the head of the group, hands held up, palms out turned. “Prajapati, _please_.”

“No, _no_ ,” she snarls back. “Fuck you, you don’t get to stand out here! This place is for _family,_ and you’ll never be welcome.”

Perry pushes Sabine aside, and steps into Falguni’s space. “Listen, I’m sorry that this happened, but you—”

Falguni cold clocks him and he crumbles, and Wash and Tucker are on their feet, and the screaming escalates, words hurling and as Wash hauls her back against his chest, fighting her struggles to get loose, her thrashing and clawing like a caged animal, he can only sigh.

Wash is no stranger to this either.

* * *

It’s a rough week, after that. After two days during which Wash suspects Dr. Grey sleeps even less than he does, she sits down with him, Kimball, and Simmons and delivers the bad news. “There’s no reattaching that pretty little arm of hers,” she says, her tone falsely bright and a little too loud. “The break wasn’t as clean as we’d hoped. She…she’ll need a prosthetic and we don’t exactly have those lying around—oh, Simmons _, don’t_ —”

Simmons shoves his chair back so hard that it falls over and stalks out of the room. “Let him go,” Kimball snaps as Wash half-rises to follow him. She hasn’t torn her gaze away from Dr. Grey. “ _Can_ she be fitted for a prosthetic?”

“Certainly,” Dr. Grey says. “But that sort of thing doesn’t happen overnight, you see. We need—”

The meeting comes to an abrupt end after that, as Doyle’s panicked voice sounds over their radios. “Agent Washington—Miss Kimball—Agent Carolina is back with the troopers and it is _not_ good, not good at all—”

It isn’t. The landing bay is a nightmare, Warthogs parked haphazardly, soldiers from both armies spilling out of them, yelling for a doctor. Dr. Grey springs into action, heading for the worst of it, straight towards one of the Feds whose guts are being held in by his partner’s hands. He’s bleeding thick and heavy. Everyone Wash can see is bleeding, even Carolina. Their gazes lock, and she heads over to him and Kimball. “Felix,” she spits. “Felix _and_ Locus. Turns out they weren’t holed up in one of their safe houses like our intel said.” Her gaze shifts to Kimball. “They know. They know about the transmitter Donut stuck, and they’ve been feeding us false information for weeks—”

An anguished scream from across the landing bay cuts off her words, and they whirl to see Dr. Grey pulling away from the soldier whose guts had been spilling out all over. Wash watches as the dead soldier’s partner lunges on top of him, his hands frantically pushing at his bulging intestines. “Fuck— _fuck!_ Rickson—no—” he grasbs frantically at Dr. Grey’s arm. “Doctor—no—you have to put them back, you have to put them back!”

Dr. Grey pulls her arm out of his grasp, leaving a bloody streak across her armor. “There’s no putting him back together, soldier,” she says. “There’s nothing—”

The soldier isn’t listening. He casts his eyes around the bay landing until they land on Kimball. “You,” he says, his voice thick with a grief and disbelief that Wash knows all too well. “This is your fault.”

He pulls out his gun, levels it at Kimball, and pulls the trigger to the sound of someone screaming.

* * *

The bullet misses Kimball, but barely.

Wash finds himself standing next to her several days later in the infirmary, watching the cadets from across the room. Britton is sitting up in bed, chatting animatedly with Kennedy. He’d ended up in the infirmary two days after Britton, courtesy of a nasty blow to the head that left him with a severe concussion. Half a dozen of their friends are clustered around their beds. They’re watching something on Katie Jensen’s datapad, sitting closer together than they normally would, smiles strained.

Kimball’s helmet is clutched tightly between her hands, off for the first time Wash can remember. She’s young, her face unmarked by scars but lined with more wrinkles around her eyes than Wash suspects she should have.

 “They’re just kids,” he says to Kimball after a while, because he can’t _not_ say it, even though he knows she knows it.

“Just kids,” she echoes, eyes darkening.

“Why?” he asks abruptly. “Why…they shouldn’t be…”

“You’re right. They shouldn’t be,” she says sharply, hands tightening around the edges of her helmet. “They should be in school, drinking wine and playing volleyball and. _.believe_ me, I am fully aware of where they _should_ and _shouldn’t_ be, Agent Washington. I am aware that they _should be_ safe.”

She laughs again, though the sound is bitter now. “But there are no more safe places. Not here. Not anymore. Do you know that most of these kids are orphans?”

He didn’t think it was possible for his stomach to sink any lower. “I didn’t.”

“Well, they are. So where would they be, if not here? Dead. Starving. Doing unspeakable things for food or water.” She clutches the helmet unconsciously to her chest. “I picked a lot of them up from the streets, out of gangs and crews, who took on Feds in street clothes and booze bombs. At least here, I can watch them. I can put a roof over their heads, and food in their bellies, and a gun in their hands. So they can protect themselves, _better._ So that they can protect each _other_. Protect their home.”

Wash watches her for a while, watching her jaw clench hard as she watches the cadets. “She can speak five different languages,” Kimball says abruptly. “Britton. She’s something of a genius. Kennedy, he likes to skateboard. Martinez plays the guitar. Prajapati’s been telling me she’s seventeen for three years. I think it might finally be true. They—hardly any of them should be here, but they are. _Here._ ”

“What about you?”

She tears her gaze away from the cadets to stare at him. “What?”

Wash gestures. “What’s your thing?”

Kimball looks at him for a while before answering. “I don’t have a thing, Agent Washington. I don’t—I don’t even remember if I _ever_ had a thing. I’d been following orders for as long as I can remember, ‘til one day I was the only one left who could give them. I don’t have a _clue_ what I would do if this was all over tomorrow.”

Wash realizes all at once that either does he. He tries to imagine a life after this, one without armor and guns and knives, and comes up utterly blank. “Me neither,” he says. “Me neither.”

* * *

“Dude, I don’t know about you, but I am pretty fucking _done_ with this week.”

Wash glances up from where he’d been staring blankly into his bowl of soup in the mess hall to see Tucker flopping throwing himself in the seat across from him, shaking out his hair. He knows he’s been had when Tucker’s gaze turns suspicious. “You look fucking _exhausted_. Have you been sleeping?”

“Of _course_ I haven’t been sleeping,” Wash says tensely, “and _everyone’s_ exhausted. We lost five soldiers this week, one got her arm blown off, another’s in a coma, and our big play with the transmitter was a failure, so you’ll _forgive_ me if I haven’t exactly been sleeping beauty—”

Tucker sighs loudly. “ _Wash_ —”

“Look, just—just _let it go_ , alright? I’m fine.”

He can feel Tucker’s eyes on him even as he determinedly avoids his gaze. “I know you’re still beating yourself up about that mission, but running yourself ragged isn’t gonna help anyone. If you need a break, you gotta say something. That’s all.”

“I don’t _need_ a break,” Wash says. “What I need is a way to—to give these soldiers…I don’t know, _hope_ , or some kind of _distraction,_ at least—”

Tucker slams his fist on the table with such enthusiasm that Wash jolts half out of his seat. “What? _What?_ ”

“What’s today’s date?” Tucker asks, whipping out his datapad and swiping through it impatiently. “The fifteenth, right?”

“Yes, but…” Wash trails off as Tucker positively _beams._ “Tucker, what’s going on?”

“I have a _brilliant_ idea,” Tucker breathes, and leaps to his feet, food untouched. “Dude! Come on!”

Wash climbs slowly to a slow stand, following Tucker around the table. “Tucker, what….” he speeds up his steps to keep pace with Tucker, who is all but sprinting through the halls. “Where are we _going?_ ”

“A distraction,” Tucker murmurs, half to himself. “That’s _it!_ They servers have been shitty lately so they don’t even have that dumb show to watch…we can’t make this shitty war go away, but we can give them a goddamn _show_ alright…” he stops so abruptly that Wash smacks into the back of him. “Okay, how good is your acting?”

Wash squints at him suspiciously. “My… _acting?_ ”

Tucker tuts, impatient. “ _Yes,_ Wash. Know the word?”

“Of course I know the word, Tucker. What I _don’t_ know is where you’re going with this—”

“Don’t ever scare me like that again!” Tucker says suddenly, and he actually gives Wash a little shove. Wash stares at him, bewildered. Tucker makes a rolling motion with his hand that Wash assumes is supposed to clear everything up. It doesn’t.

“Um…” he clears his throat, glancing around. There is nothing in his surroundings to help him clue in as to what Tucker is talking about. They’re in a deserted hallway, standing, Wash notices for the first time, right outside the double doors that lead to the infirmary. “S—sorry?”

Tucker rolls his eyes in despair. _Play along,_ he mouths to Wash, and after several glances between Tucker and the infirmary doors, it clicks. “You _cannot_ be serious,” he hisses, mortified.

Tucker’s face splits into a grin. “So serious.” He glances at the doors as well. “Look, it’s the fifteenth, yeah? We do this today and _Britton_ wins the betting pool. You in, or what?”

God _dammit._ Wash closes his eyes briefly in embarrassment before taking a breath, squaring his shoulders, and flinging open the infirmary doors with a flourish. “You’re being ridiculous, Captain Tucker! I’m fine!”

“This time!” He hears Tucker crashing through after him. “I don’t know how much more of this I can _take,_ Washington!”

Wash lets his pacing carry him through the rows of beds in the infirmary—right past the section where Britton and Kennedy are recovering, several of their friends clustered around their beds. They all falter as Tucker and Wash come to a halt across the room. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Of course not!” Tucker says dramatically. Wash admits a grudging respect for his acting abilities. “Because you don’t listen—you don’t see, do you?” His hands come up to grasp Wash’s desperately as he moves closer. _Your move,_ he mouths, the snarky little shit. Clearly he doesn’t think Wash can rise to the occasion.

“I _do_ see,” Wash says, voice low enough that out of the corner of his eye, he sees the cadets lean closer to catch his words. “I…don’t you understand, Tucker? You’re _all_ I see. But we can’t… _I_ can’t…”

He breaks off as if it’s too much for him, pulling away from Tucker and facing the opposite direction. “I can’t lose you,” he whispers dramatically, and lets the silence sit.

Tucker grabs his arm to spin him back around, and Wash lets him. “I can’t lose you _either_ , you _idiot,_ ” he says, and then he’s ripping off Wash’s helmet, tugging him close, and dipping him backwards. The kiss is ridiculous and over the top, but it’s also nice and soft and hungry in a way that makes him think Tucker isn’t entirely joking. He cups his hands around the back of Tucker’s head, and feels Tucker’s mouth turn up in a grin as the cadets almost fall over each other with gasps and hushes.

“I _need_ you, Wash,” Tucker whispers, and Wash has to bite back a snicker, it’s so over the top. “I need you _now_.”

He yanks Wash back to an upright position and drags him out the infirmary door. The room erupts as all of the cadets start talking at once— _“Did you see that?” “What day is it? What day is it?!” “That was the hottest shit I’ve ever seen.”_ Wash sincerely hopes he imagined the “ _Please tell me you got that on camera!”_

“Think they got the point?” Tucker snickers as they stride down the hallway. “Goddamn, I deserve an Oscar.”

“That was pretty smooth,” Wash admits. He snags Tucker’s wrist and pulls him into another kiss, a real one, with no one watching, and when they pull away Tucker is a little breathless.

“Yeah? My hotass brain make _you_ hot, Wash?”

As it turns out, it does.

“We’re not gonna keep getting this lucky,” Tucker whispers later, much later. They’re in Wash’s room this time, and his head is on Wash’s chest, eyes carefully canted away as he says it. “Not that this week has been fucking lucky, but…with these missions…it’s gonna be one of our guys, sooner or later.”

Wash sighs, tilting Tucker’s face up so their gazes lock. “No, it’s not.”

“Wash.”

“It’s _not_.” Wash takes a breath and kisses him, hard. “You’re all making it out of this. One way or the—”

“ _We’re_ all making it out of this.”

“I—what?”

“You didn’t include yourself. If we’re all making it out of this, then so are you, got it?”

“Got it,” Wash says, and Tucker surges up to kiss him this time.

“Good.”

It’s the calm before the storm, he thinks, this thing with Tucker and their seemingly endless supply of luck. He wants to keep them in it, _all_ of them, as the world whips by, the danger forever out of reach.

 _What would that look like?_ He wonders suddenly, as Tucker pulls Wash on top of him. What would his world even look like without danger and armor and endless conflict? Who is he, without his guns?

“You’re thinking too much,” Tucker murmurs teasingly in his ear, and Wash shoves his thoughts down hard. There will be time to figure the _after_ out, but he wants to stay here, in the _now_ —Tucker moving underneath him, grinning into his kiss, hands so warm on Wash’s skin—in the eye of the storm, the calmest he’s had in a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAJOR THANKS to [Melissa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniMax/pseuds/MiniMax) for all of her help on this chapter, and for letting me borrow Falguni. <3
> 
> Thanks for reading guys, much love to you all!


	18. Chapter 18

Tucker knows it’s going to be a bad day when he wakes up to the sound of Wash yelling the walls down.

The two of them hadn’t spent _every_ night sleeping together since they’d started “going steady,” as Tucker kept jokingly calling it, but they’d spent enough. Tucker was starting to get used to the way Wash would fidget and jerk before lapsing into a full-blown nightmare, and was usually able to wake him up eventually.

Wash had either skipped the fidgeting tonight, or Tucker had been so deeply asleep that he’d missed it completely. Regardless, Wash’s scream hits him like a bucket of cold water, jerking him back to consciousness before he’s aware of what’s happening.

Wash has the sheets twisted up around his chest, howling as if someone’s lit the bed on fire. Tucker lunges for him without thinking, every instinct and lesson he’s learned over the past few weeks overridden and refocused into a single impulse: _wake him up._

“Wash!” Tucker grabs his shoulders, shaking hard. “Wash, wake up, wake up, _wake up!_ ”

He does, and Tucker is met with an unhappy reminder of just _why_ shaking Wash awake is a bad idea. Wash’s hands snap up and fasten around his arms, and before Tucker can make heads or tails of the situation, he finds himself pressed back into the mattress with Wash leaning over him.

 _Shit, shit, shit._ Wash’s eyes are blank and unseeing, his hands gripping tight enough that they’re probably going to leave bruises and yeah, Tucker _really_ doesn’t want to deal with the fallout from that. “Listen man, I’m all for getting a little rough and rowdy, but it’s like, ass-o-clock in the morning and I’ve gotta go on that mission and be a badass later, so…maybe another hour of sleep and then you can give me a good luck blowjob?”

Wash’s hands stutter on Tucker’s arms, and Tucker reaches his own hands up to squeeze Wash’s elbows as best he can. “ _Wash_. Come on, wake up. You’re fine. Everything’s fine. You’re on Chorus, in my bed with my fine ass, and—”

“Tucker?”

Wash’s voice is small and brittle, and Tucker gives his elbows another squeeze. “Bingo. You okay?”

“Tucker,” Wash says again, louder this time, and lets go of him immediately, jumping away to the end of the bed as if burned. “ _Tucker!_ Are you—? Did I—?”

The door to his room crashes open, sending both of them to their feet, squinting against the sudden light spilling from the hallway. Carolina is standing backlit in the doorway, pistol up and body taut. Tucker watches her scan the tiny room before glancing between the two of them.

“Everything alright in here?” she asks carefully.

“It’s fine,” Wash says dully. “Sorry, Carolina.”

Tucker sighs when she continues to stare at them. “ _It’s fine_ ,” he echoes. “Look, there aren’t any mercs hiding under our bed—I just had a nightmare, alright?”

Both of their incredulous gazes snap to him. Tucker can tell he hasn’t fooled Carolina for a second, but she nods slowly. “Try to get some rest, Tucker. We leave in two hours.”

“Sure you don’t wanna join us for some pre-mission relaxing time?” Tucker calls as she leaves.

Carolina doesn’t even deign him with a disgusted glance, just pulls the door shut behind her with an irritated snap.

“Well, guess our secret’s out,” Tucker jokes.

“Our secret was already out,” Wash mutters, then turns abruptly, reaching for Tucker. His hands pause just above Tucker’s shoulders, hovering there uncertainly. “Did I…did I hurt you?”

“No,” Tucker says quickly. “Dude, stop. I’m fine.”

“I _did,_ didn’t I,” Wash says, his voice grim and laced with guilt. “I’m…I’m so sorry, Tucker, I…”

Tucker groans. “ _Please_ stop looking at me like that. Wash, I’m o- _kaaay._ ”

“This time,” Wash says, and the worst part is that he sounds so miserable, it doesn’t even come out as dramatic.

“Don’t start,” Tucker says sharply. “We’re skipping this part, remember—”

“We _can’t_ skip this part!” Wash turns away from him and rakes his hands through his hair. “We can’t, Tucker! This isn’t a problem that’s going to go away! I could’ve seriously hurt you—”

“But you didn’t—”

“ _But I could have!_ ” Wash turns to glare at him. “Why didn’t you _yell_ or—or hit the wall, to try to get someone _in_ here? You can’t just try to snap me out of it on your own when I get like that!”

Which hurts Tucker more than it should, because he thinks that he does a pretty good job of snapping Wash out of the bad stuff. “Well, ex- _cuuuse_ me!  I haven’t exactly taken a fucking _seminar_ on how to snap my boyfriend out of his shitty PTSD night terrors—”

“I don’t have PTSD.”

Tucker stares at him. “Are you joking?”

“Tucker—”

“No, seriously.” Tucker catches his arm as he stalks by. “ _Wash_. Are you for real right now?”

He does have vague memories of Wash saying something similar on Rockslide. Tucker had found it odd then, too, Wash’s denial of something that was so serious, but now—now that he’s heard the stories and seen the nightmares, it twists his stomach into knots.

“Look—I don’t—what does it _matter_ , Tucker?”

“Wash.” He’s no longer looking Tucker in the eye, the asshole. “Of _course_ it matters.”

“It _doesn’t._ ” Wash tugs his arm out of Tucker’s grip and runs his hands through his hair again, twisting the strands into spikes. “It doesn’t! What _matters_ is that I just—I just put my hands on you! I could’ve—”

“Okay.” Tucker reaches for him, and Wash moves away again. “Wash, come _on_. Just look at me.”

“I need to know that you’ll yell for help,” Wash says suddenly. “If I grab you like that. Promise me.”

“I…” Tucker huffs. “ _Fine._ I promise, okay? I’ll scream my head off. Happy?”

Wash turns and looks at him then, and Tucker doesn’t like what he sees in his eyes, not one bit. “Do you sleep with a gun near you?”

“Yeah dude, I’m in the military. Of course I sleep with a—” Tucker breaks off, horrified. “ _Wash!_ ”

“I need to know that you’ll use it, if you have to.” Wash looks at him, unblinking. “If you yell and no one comes, and I’m not waking up, then I need to know that you’ll—”

“That I’ll _what?”_ he yells, voice pitchy in the way he teases Wash for. “That I’ll _shoot you?_ ”

“Yes,” Wash says, as if it’s obvious, as if it’s the most _obvious thing in the world_. “I need to know that you’ll protect yourself. That you’ll put me down if you have to.”

Tucker has to turn away for a moment to get his face under control. It’s too much, the _protect yourself_ , the _put me down_ , as if Wash is a dog, as if he thinks he’s nothing—

 _Which he does,_ Tucker realizes. _Still_.

“I wouldn’t have to _put you down,_ Wash, if you’d just fucking—fucking _talk_ to someone, like Grey or someone about this, and she could maybe give you—I don’t know, _breathing_ exercises, or—” Tucker takes a deep breath, running a shaking hand through his dreads and turning back around. “But no, you just want to fucking ask me to _shoot_ you like I _can_ —like I would ever be _able_ to—do you know how fucked up that is?”

“It isn’t fucked up,” Wash says stiffly, “For you to defend yourself—”

“ _No!_ Are you fucking serious? _Defend myself,_ Jesus, Wash! Don’t ask me to—how could you ask me something like that and expect me to—”

“ _Tucker, please!”_ Wash backs even farther away from him. “ _Please!_ I need you to—I can’t—I can’t do this if I think I’m going to hurt you!”

“You’re not—”

“STOP!” Wash screws his eyes shut. “ _STOP SAYING THAT!_ You don’t _know_ that, you don’t! Do you know what it would do to me if I woke up and I saw that I had—that I had—”

“Wash—”

“I won’t survive that,” Wash says hysterically, hands fisting hard in his hair. “I won’t! I’ll lose it, I’ll lose my mind, and you want me to—to _risk your life_ just because I—because you—you want me to wake up to your _body_ and tell _Caboose_ what I did—I won’t, Tucker, I _won’t,_ I’ll blow my own brains out right then and there, I swear to _God,_ I won’t make it, I won’t _risk_ it, I—”

“Wash.” Tucker surges forward, fastening his hands around Wash’s wrists. “You’re hurting yourself. _Stop_.”

“I don’t care,” Wash says viciously. “I don’t _care_ —”

“Well, I do.” Tucker tightens his grips and pulls Wash’s hands away from his hair. “Stop freaking out and sit the fuck down. Come on.”

Wash’s body is tense and stiff, but he allows Tucker to pull him back over to the bed. He crouches in front of Wash, still holding tight to his wrists. “Will you please _look_ at me, you idiot?”

It takes a moment, but Wash does, his face drawn and miserable. “I’m okay,” Tucker says, and when Wash snorts and starts to pull away, Tucker redoubles his grip. “No, Wash, I’m _okay_. I’m right _here._ ”

“I don’t know if you understand how serious this is,” Wash says, his words tumbling out in a rush. “I don’t—when I wake up like that, I—I don’t know where I am, or _who_ I am, or…who you are.”

“I know.”

_“I could kill you.”_

“I know that, too.” Tucker raises an eyebrow when Wash frowns. “What, you think I’m just gonna leave? Tell you to get the fuck out? Well, think again. I’m not fucking going _anywhere._ I can handle this. I won’t like, lean over you like that again, and I’ll yell for help, and—”

“And you’ll hurt me, if you have to?”

“Wash.”

“Tucker.”

They glare at each other. “Dude, that’s not—you’re so fucking—that’s not the _solution_ here, for me to fucking shoot you. You just have to talk to Grey or someone about this, she can help you—”

“I’m not taking sleeping pills,” Wash says, his voice rising. “I’m not, I can’t, they—”

“I don’t mean sleeping pills! I mean…you know. Therapy.”

Something closes off in Wash’s eyes. “I don’t want therapy.”

“Why _not?_ ”

“I just—look, Dr. Grey has more important things to do than talk to me about all the shit I’ve done—”

“All the shit that was done _to you_.”

Wash blinks at him. “What?”

Tucker sighs. “Look man, I know you’re all about owning your past sins, but you went through some pretty fucked up bullshit that _wasn’t_ your fault. You do know that, right?”

Wash dodges the question. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t _need_ therapy. _Britton_ needs therapy. She’s fifteen and just lost her arm in a war she has no business fighting. Kennedy needs therapy. Jensen needs therapy. I’m not—I have _no right_ to take attention away from these kids.”

“Wash, seriously.” Tucker squeezes his wrists again, thumbs rubbing circles against the pulse points. “It isn’t that big of a deal. Dr. Grey can spare two hours or so a week to just—help you get a handle on some of this.”

Wash says nothing, just shakes his head, and Tucker drops his head on top of Wash’s forearms. “Look,” he says. “Look. I want—I _want_ you. And I’m not fucking going anywhere, and I’ll listen to anything you have to say. But I can’t help you on this, ya know? You gotta talk to like, a fucking _professional_ here. You need some help.”

The silence stretches on and on, until Tucker feels Wash curl over him. “I’ll….think about it.”

Tucker looks up. “You will?”

Wash hesitates, but nods. “I’ll _think_ about it,” he repeats, then, stronger: “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I know.”

“You _do_ help,” Wash says suddenly. “Even before…this. You’ve always helped.”

Tucker’s chest lights up at those words, and he finally stands, pressing a kiss to the top of Wash’s head. “Anytime, dude. You just—you gotta learn that it’s okay for ask for help and shit.”

The look that Wash gives him suggests that this is a foreign concept, but he nods. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—you’ve got a mission in a few hours, you should be sleeping.”

“It’s cool, dude.” Tucker yawns and climbs back into bed. “Hmm. You wanna talk about it?”

“About the mission?”

“Nooo.” Tucker tugs Wash down next to him. “About your _nightmare_.”

“No,” Wash says quickly. “No, it doesn’t matter.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” Wash says. He lets Tucker tug him back against his chest. “It wasn’t real. They never are.”

Tucker buries his face in the space between Wash’s shoulder blades and sighs. “Alright, dude. Let’s go back to sleep.”

Wash is tense and fidgeting in his arms at first, but relaxes bit by bit. His body is cool, always so cool, and it feels nice against the heat of Tucker’s chest, and within ten minutes Tucker is asleep.

* * *

To his slight surprise, Wash apparently fell asleep too. Tucker wakes up before him for once, and he dresses quietly—Wash doesn’t need to be up for another three hours—but Wash stirs anyway, throws back the covers and starts getting dressed.

“Dude, no,” Tucker protests. “You’re not even going on this mission, sleep in for once—”

“I want to talk to everyone before they go,” Wash insists, already halfway into his Kevlar suit.

“You know _Carolina’s_ coming on this mission with us, right? We’ll be fine.”

“I know that,” Wash says carefully. “I just…want to see everyone off. It’s a big deal.”

It is. Dr. Grey’s realization that she was unable to fit Britton with a prosthetic right away led to the even greater realization that their medical supplies were dwindling. There was an abandoned hospital in the next city over, Elodia, and Carolina had reported back that it was well stocked.

The city itself was nearly abandoned, only a few pockets of civilians here and there. The planet had clustered together since the war had started, forming little societies outside of Armonia. “You’re _sure_ no one’s using that hospital?” Kimball had asked Carolina at least half a dozen times. “Elodia wasn’t exactly thriving, but it wasn’t abandoned on our last run there. We don’t want to take supplies away from anyone who needs them.”

“The supplies are just sitting there,” Carolina had reassured her. “Either _we_ take them, or Charon does.”

Which, in the end, had been the crux of the issue.

“I hate that I’m not going on this with you all,” Wash says now, as they start down the hall towards the landing bay.

“They need you here, dude.”

“I know,” Wash says. “I just.still. I don’t like it.”

Tucker grins suddenly, pulling him to a halt in the hallway. “Is that why you’re going with me? You wanna see me off to war? Give me a big old kiss?”

Wash huffs. “Tucker, _please._ ”

“You _dooooo._ ” He backs Wash against the wall. “You wanna see my fine ass off, maybe have a quickie in the hallway before we leave, and—”

“Tucker, we are wearing armor.”

“We can work around that.”

Wash sighs, pushing Tucker away gently and continuing down the hall. “Alright, war hero, let’s go.”

Breakfast is a rushed affair, but Wash manages to cram in a full lecture at their table in the time it takes everyone to gulp down some coffee and a few pieces of fruit. A couple of the Fed captains seem to be paying studious attention—Ali is actually taking notes—and Simmons is nodding solemnly at every word, but Tucker is pretty sure that the rest of the sim troopers are dozing inside their helmets. Wash continues on, undaunted, shaking shoulders and rapping on visors when he suspects they’re not paying attention. The lecture doesn’t stop until they’ve all shuffled down the hallway and are clustered around the Pelicans, waiting to board.

“You’ve got that, haven’t you Tucker? Make sure you watch your six, you have a terrible habit of not watching your six in close quarters. Make sure you _check your six_ or have your back to a wall. Okay?”

“ _Okay_ , Wash,” Tucker groans, exasperated. “I’ll watch my six or I’ll get someone else to do it. I mean, who _wouldn’t_ want that job, am I right?”

He winks at Wash before realizing that he can’t see the motion, and sends him a winky face text instead before turning to go. Before he can board the Pelican, Wash’s hand closes around his wrist. He turns around, surprised, but Wash only clears his throat. “Be careful, Captain Tucker,” he says, voice clipped and professional.

“Yes _sir_ ,” Tucker says, in the least professional voice he can manage, and Wash sighs, letting him go.

“Will you hurry it the fuck up already?” Grif groans from the top of the Pelican, and Tucker takes off after him. He bows theatrically at the top of the ramp, watching Wash shake his head in exasperation before the ramp seals itself.

* * *

“You know this is what you look like, right? When you stare at Agent Washington?”

Tucker glances up to see Ali flipping his datapad around. It’s a drawing of Tucker, sitting at one of the tables in the mess hall. He’s got his chin propped up on one hand and has a goofy, moony grin on his face, and is gazing at someone sitting across from him, someone with fluffy blond hair—

“Wh—it is _NOT!_ ” Tucker sputters, indignant. He makes a swipe at the datapad, but Ali holds it away, snickering. “Dude. _Not_ cool. I actually thought you were like, taking _notes_ on what Wash was saying back there.”

“Oh, man.” Grif comes around to stand behind Ali, peering over his shoulder. “Dude, he fucking _nailed_ you.”

“Did not,” Tucker grumps. “You guys are assholes.”

“I think it’s romantic,” Fitz says absently, then glances up at the resounding silence that follows. “What? It _is_.”

“It’s _sickening,_ is what it is,” Grif mutters.

“Listen, I know you’re jealous because I’m getting some and you’re not—”

Grif snorts. “Oh, yeah. _Soooo_ jealous of the fact that you get to blow Wash. _Super_ jealous.”

“Uhhh, I don’t know why you _wouldn’t_ be, have you seen his thighs? Because let me tell you—”

“Oh my God, _please_ stop,” Simmons groans. He fumbles with his helmet, jamming it onto his head to hide the spreading blush. “Tucker, you are shameless.”

“Dude, have you _met_ me?” Tucker glances around at them all and folds his arms. “You can all rag on me all you want, I’m not like embarrassed, or ashamed, so—”

“Oh geez,” Grif sighs. “ _Please_ don’t get all righteous, no one said _that_ —”

“—like, Wash isn’t a dirty little _secret_ —well, there _is_ plenty of dirty, if you know what I mean—”

“ _Stooooop_ ,” Simmons moans. “Tucker!”

“Grif started it!”

“I did not! Blame Picasso over here, not me!”

“ _All_ of you stop,” Carolina groans from the cockpit, “or I will _make_ you.”

“So will I,” Epsilon calls, his voice pained. “I can _not_ listen to this all the way to Elodia.”

Ali resumes his drawing to general snickering. Tucker huffs, but after a few moments, curiosity gets the better of him, and he edges closer until he can see over Ali’s shoulder.  It _does_ look just like him, Tucker has to admit, and now that he has a closer look, the expression on his face doesn’t look quite as pathetic as Tucker initially thought. He mostly just looks happy. _Still_ , though. “Do I really look at him like that?”

“Yep,” Ali says without missing a beat. “But you should see the way he looks at _you_.”

Tucker snorts, but he eyes the drawing again. “Can you, uh. Can you send that to me? I’ve never had anyone draw me before man, that’s cool as shit.”

Ali tilts his head, and Tucker can only assume he’s making a face. “Ehh, it’s not that good.”

“It’s fucking _awesome_.”

“Alright, if you really like it…” Ali snickers. “I _could_ always put it up on Basebook so _everyone_ can look at it—”

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

Ali laughs again, but makes a few final touches on the drawing before sending it to Tucker. Tucker files it away and continues to watch over Ali’s shoulder as he begins another drawing of what Tucker soon realizes is one of the alien towers, the lines of his pen confident and sure.

* * *

“Dude, this a fucking ghost town.”

Grif grunts next to him. “Yeah. It’s pretty fucked up.”

“It’s quiet,” Carolina says, appearing next to them. “ _Too_ quiet.”

Tucker exchanges a glance with Grif before they follow her, approaching the doors to the hospital slowly. “We’re clear,” she says over the radio. “Set the Pelican down as close to the doors as you can get it.”

The Pelicans descend slowly around them. The city appears utterly deserted, but recently so. There are no boarded up windows or debris in the streets: it looks as if everyone has simply vanished without a trace.

“Creepy,” Simmons mutters, and Tucker has to agree.

They advance towards the hospital nonetheless, and get to work on clearing the building. It’s a long, tense process filled with more than a few false alarms—two of the cadets bump into each other around a corner and scream so loudly that Tucker is convinced he lost ten years off of his life. Kimball comes tearing into the hospital at the sound of their yelling, despite protests from Carolina that the building isn’t clear yet. The get a lecture from Perry on the proper method of clearing a building, and Perry gets a lecture from Andersmith on the proper way to give a lecture, and Carolina snaps at them all to stop clogging up the radio with their chatter.

By the time they move to actually retrieving the medical supplies, a full hour has passed. Tucker wanders around one of the supply closets while Simmons rattles off a list of what he should grab off the shelves.

“No, not that gauze,” he tells Tucker impatiently. “The one in the red box…the _other_ red box… _the other red box_.”

“What the fuck does it matter what kind of gauze we bring back as long as it’s _gauze?_ ” Tucker snaps, finally locating the correct boxes and sweeping them into the bag he’s carrying.

“ _Well,_ I assume that Dr. Grey didn’t just make these decisions for no reason,” Simmons tells him snottily. “ _Honestly,_ Tucker, don’t you know _anything_ about battlefield medicine?”

“No! And neither do you!”

“I’ll have you know that I’ve studied _extensively_ on the subject—”

So it goes. The process is long and tedious, but overall, it’s a resounding success. They’re getting a fuckton of supplies, and Simmons is so overjoyed when Tucker stumbles across some of the equipment needed to make prosthetics that he instantly drops his know-it-all attitude.

Still, Tucker isn’t surprised when Carolina pings their shared captains channel. “Nobody panic, but we’re about to have company.”

The moment she says it, Tucker can hear the unmistakable roar of approaching ships. He and Simmons rush to the window as one of them lands with a _BOOM_ , and Tucker finds he was mistaken. Not multiple ships. One ship. One motherfucking _huge_ ship. They watch as several soldiers spill out, wearing armor that Tucker doesn’t recognize.

“Maybe,” Simmons says hesitantly. “Maybe they’re… _good_ guys?”

They are dispelled of this happy thought as the newcomers immediately open fire on their own soldiers on the ground. Tucker and Simmons shove away from the window as one and tear through the hallway, leap down three flights of stairs, and come spilling out of the hospital just in time to see two more soldiers descend from the Pelican, two soldiers wearing familiar colors—

“Felix,” Tucker spits. “ _And_ Locus. Mother _fucker!_ ”

A grenade drops only twelve feet away from them, and Tucker and Simmons dive in opposite directions. Tucker lets the roll carry him to his feet, drawing his sword and activating it with a hiss. He spins, locates the first soldier with that unfamiliar, mismatched armor, and jabs it right through his chest.

“Carolina, who _are_ these assholes?”

“I’m not sure. Everyone—take out as many of them as you can, but get the soldiers and that equipment onto the Pelicans and get out of here. We _need_ those supplies. I’ve got eyes on everyone, I’ll cover you as best I can.”

Tucker can tell from the almost undetectable sulk in her voice that she isn’t happy about it. She’s torn, Tucker suspects, between wanting to be in the thick of the action, and being able to call the shots from above. “We _got_ this, don’t fret,” Tucker says.

For a while, they _do_ have it. The fighting quickly deteriorates into guerilla warfare, both sides holed up in various alleyways and buildings, and Tucker can only be grateful that the newcomers’ armor makes them so easy to tell apart. Tucker’s just finished wrenching his sword out of another hostile’s throat when he hears a cry of pain, and spins just in time to see Perry collapse into the dirt.

“No! Fuck, _fuck_ —somebody cover me!” Tucker yells over the radio, and goes sprinting towards Perry. Somebody must be listening, because the next soldier who raises his gun at Tucker falls almost immediately. Perry has both hands pressed tight to his abdomen, which is gushing blood with no signs of stopping. Tucker drops to his knees next to him, padding frantically around for the biofoam.

“Used it all,” Perry mumbles, and Tucker yanks out his own biofoam canister before Perry has even finished speaking, plunging it down into his gut. The wound is large and deep, and Perry cries out as the foam spreads throughout the wound. It takes Tucker’s entire canister, but the bleeding stops, leaving Tucker’s gloves stained and Perry stirring weakly.

“Hey, _hey,_ stay with me, dude…” He raps on the side of Perry’s visor. “Come on, pull it together!”

“I don’t think I’m gonna make it,” Perry slurs up at him, like they’re in a fucking wartime movie or some shit, and nope, Tucker is having absolutely none of that today.

“Shut the fuck up.” Tucker unsnaps Wash’s healing unit from his armor and slots it into Perry’s. “Don’t be so dramatic, Jesus.”

Perry groans with relief almost immediately and lets Tucker pull him to his feet. He sags heavily against Tucker, boots dragging in the dirt, but Tucker’s able to get him onto the nearest Pelican. “Wash is gonna be pissed at you,” he mutters, “for giving this to me.”

“I don’t need it,” Tucker says shortly. “ _You_ do. You’ve got a hole in your gut, so stop complaining and lay down.”

He settles Perry down on the floor of the Pelican, where a handful of other wounded soldiers already are. Tucker opens his radio again. “Alright, we need injured on this Pelican and we need this Pelican _gone_. Pelican C, closest to the hospital. Let’s get moving.”

A handful more soldiers come stumbling over, dragging their comrades, and Tucker stands watch at the foot of the ramp. He snags the last Fed who comes carrying one of the cadets on her back. “Can you fly?”

“Of course I can fly, Captain.”

“Great. You’re the new pilot on this bird. Bring ‘em home.”

She gives him a salute—Tucker is _still_ not used to that—and closes the ramp behind her. The Pelican takes off into the air and Tucker turns back into the fray.

A bullet whizzes so close to his helmet that Tucker can almost feel it, and he whirls to meet his attacker. The soldier lifts their rifle and Tucker lunges in, canting his body off to the side until he can get one hand around the gun and the other around the soldier’s wrists. He twists the gun out of their hands, angles it, and—

A sharp and sudden pain lances through his thigh, bringing him down to one knee. Tucker lets out a startled scream, but there’s no time to look as the soldier advances on him. Pure instinct has him bringing the pistol back up to bear and pulling the trigger. The soldier falls with one shot, a smoking hole in the center of his visor.

Tucker remains frozen, gun up and glancing around, but his area appears clear. He lets out a shaky breath, glances down at his throbbing leg, and there, embedded halfway in his thigh, is a knife.

For a few seconds, his brain doesn’t even register what he’s seeing. The sounds of the battlefield dim to a dull roar as Tucker’s bones turn to jelly and he scuttles backwards into an alleyway, as if he can move away from the situation. His back hits some sort of wall, teeth chattering in his skull, breath rattling in his chest, hands shaking, shaking, _shaking_. He tries to clench them into fists but they’re not _listening,_ not doing what he wants them to do—

“Tucker. Captain _Tucker._ What’s going on?”

Carolina’s voice cuts slowly through the fog in his head. It takes Tucker another few seconds to realize he’s muttering hysterically to himself, a constant stream of “ _ohhh fuck, fuck, oh fffuck_ ,” and that it’s transmitting over the radio.

“Tucker. Talk to me.”

“Knife,” he gasps. “I—I—I… _ffffuck_ , Carolina, I got hit—k-knife in my leg…”

“Okay,” Carolina says. “Tucker, just hang on—Grif, what’s your status?”

“Little busy!” Grif yells over the radio.

“Get _unbusy_. You’re the closest and I need you to go to Tucker’s position and get him to the Pelican. Tucker, where is the knife? What part of your leg?”

“My thigh,” Tucker says, his voice too bright even to his own ears. “I’m fine…just gonna get my biofoam…and…”

“Tucker, _no_ ,” Carolina says. “You need to leave that knife where it is until a doctor can take it out. If it’s in your thigh there’s a good chance it’s on your femoral artery and—”

“Yeah, _fuck that_ ,” Tucker says, patting around for his biofoam. It takes him several seconds of checking and re-checking the pockets and compartments on his armor to realize that he’s out of biofoam. He’d used it all on Perry and for all he knows Perry is dead on the Pelican—

Panic seeps into the edges of his brain. “I’m out,” Tucker says, cutting through the chatter on the radio. “I’m out of— _Carolina,_ I’m out of biofoam, I—”

“Tucker, just find cover and try not to move that leg,” Carolina says. “ _Grif_ —”

“I’m going, I’m _going!_ ”

“I can pack it with something else,” Tucker says wildly. “I—I can use—someone’s—fucking _shirt,_ or—”

“ _No!”_ Carolina’s voice comes more urgently now. “No. Listen to me—you cannot pull that knife out! You have no biofoam and even if you did, you could do some serious damage—”

“Felix pulled the knife out,” Tucker says. His brain feels oddly blank and small. “He—he pulled it right out of my guts and I was fine, it’s fine, it’ll be fine, _Carolina_ —”

“Tucker, Grif is on his way—just breathe and—”

“I am breathing!” He clenches his trembling hands into fists and sucks in a breath. His hands won’t stop shaking no matter how hard he clenches them, but they _have_ to stop shaking because he has to pull this knife out, it can’t stay there, he can’t look at it for another second or he’s going to lose his mind—

He’s just wrapping a shaky fist around it when Grif comes skidding around the corner at an impressive speed. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Grif crouches down next to Tucker and wraps a hand around Tucker’s wrist, stilling the motion. “Uh, did you not fucking hear what Carolina just said? Don’t even _think_ about it—”

“Get the fuck _off_ of me!” Tucker reaches his other hand down towards the knife, but Grif bats that one away too. Tucker thrashes, and he lets out a yelp as the knife shifts painfully. “Grif—I gotta—I gotta get it out, it hurts, it _fucking hurts!_ ”

“It’s gonna hurt worse if you’re bleeding out all over the fucking ground!” Grif gets a hand under the chin of Tucker’s visor and jerks his head up. “And don’t fucking look at it! Pull your shit together!”

Tucker grits his teeth, staring determinedly up at the sky. “Grif, I’m gonna fucking _lose it_ , I swear to God—”

“Stop being such a big baby,” Grif snaps. “I can’t get you out of here if you’re freaking out like this!”

Tucker tries to suck in another breath, but it’s as if he’s forgotten how. He clutches hard at Grif’s forearm and Grif gives a firm pat to the side of his visor. “ _Tucker_. Jesus, _breathe._ In and out and all that shit. Come on.”

“You boys need to get on another Pelican,” Carolina says, her voice clipped and terse. “We don’t have much time.”

“We got it, we got it,” Grif says impatiently. “Do you see what I’m _dealing_ with here?!”

Tucker closes his eyes as Grif rifles through the compartments on his armor. If he keeps them closed, he doesn’t have to see the knife or the blood or the smoke, or watch as Grif winds a bandage around his thigh as best he can, the white gauze instantly turning red.

He lets Grif slide one of his arms under Tucker’s shoulder and pull him slowly to his feet. Tucker grits his teeth and tries to stand on, but even minimal weight on his busted leg has him sagging against Grif. “Can’t walk,” he gasps. “Grif—just fucking pull it out, just do it!”

“Don’t you dare, Grif,” Carolina snaps over the radio.

“Carolina—”

“Alright, everyone _stop!_ ” Grif blows out a breath. “I can’t carry him. Not without fucking up his leg even further. I need someone else over here.”

“I’ve got him.”

Kimball’s voice sounds over the radio at the same time that she rounds the corner. “Alright, Captain Tucker?”

“Fuckin’ peachy,” Tucker gasps as she slings his other arm around her shoulder. “Just great.”

“We’ll get you out of here,” she promises. “Grif, let’s get his legs on three. One, two…”

Tucker tries not to cry out as they lift his legs, suspending him in between them, but he doesn’t entirely succeed.

“General, be _careful_ down there,” Carolina says. “I don’t know how many hostiles there are, but your quadrant is crawling with them. Stick to the southeastern edge of the rock wall and the snipers can cover you from up here. I’m coming to you.”

“Can you do it quickly?” Grif grunts. “Because Tucker here weighs about a million pounds and—where are we even taking him, anyway?”

“One of the Pelicans,” Kimball says tersely. “I called in for back-up. Medical and artillery. We’re overwhelmed—Carolina’s right, this place is crawling with hostiles and I don’t even recognize their armor—”

Tucker sees her point about being overwhelmed when they duck out of the little corner he’d wedged himself into and back into the main action, and come face to face with one of the enemy soldiers. Before any of them can react, the soldier’s body goes limp, crashing hard to the ground.

“Sniper,” Kimball says, by way of explanation. “One of ours.”

“I would hope so,” Grif says. “Let’s hope _their_ snipers have shitty aim.”

“Get back! Get back!”

Carolina appears out of nowhere, an aqua blur skidding to a halt next to them. Kimball and Grif jerk him back to their little alcove, and _great_ , they’re back exactly where they started.

Carolina makes short work of the enemy soldiers near them before approaching. “It’s too hot out there,” she says. “The Pelicans are a no go. You’ll have to hole up here for a while.”

“Fine,” Tucker grits. “F-fine, I don’t care, just—look, if we can’t get to any of the doctors then someone take this fucking knife out of my leg before I _scream_ —”

“No,” Carolina says shortly, glancing at his thigh. “Absolutely not. That _definitely_ needs to be taken out by a doctor—”

“Which apparently you are now, since it seems like you’re a fucking _expert!_ ”

“The hospital,” Epsilon says suddenly, popping up next to Carolina. “The hospital. There’s a fuckton of room in there. We get Tucker in there, broadcast a code red over the radio, and have one of the doctors come to him.”

“The hospital,” Grif says flatly. “As in, the hospital we just came out of?”

Tucker groans. “Look, we can go to the fucking _moon_ for all I care, just—let’s just go and get a goddamn doctor over here before I rip this thing out of my leg myself!”

They make it out of the overhang and back through the hospital doors with no problems—Tucker had, after all, only gotten a few dozen feet out the goddamn door to begin with. Kimball and Grif set him down just inside the door, and the moment they lift Tucker’s arms from around their shoulders, he lunges at the knife.

Grif’s hand shoots out to grab his wrist, and behind the haze of panic and adrenaline, Tucker is impressed: he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Grif move so fast in his life. “You idiot! _Don’t!_ ”

Tucker groans, pressing his head back hard against the wall where they’ve leaned him up. “Guys, I swear to fucking god—”

“Jesus, has he been whining like this the whole time?” Epsilon quips.

“More or less,” Grif says. He’s still got a firm grip around Tucker’s wrist. “That’s Blue Team for you, always fucking whining—”

Epsilon makes an indignant noise. “Uh, you know _I’m_ Blue Team, right?”

“Like I said, _that’s Blue Team for you,_ always fucking whining—”

“So these new soldiers,” Carolina says loudly. She’s posted up on one knee in the open doorway, pistol at the ready. “Any idea who they are or where they came from, General?”

“I’ve never seen them before,” Kimball answers. She slams a new mag into her pistol and takes the other side of the doorway. “And their armor…”

“Looks like shit,” Grif offers. He shrugs when they both throw him a glance. “It does. None of it matches—let’s all be grateful _Donut_ isn’t here to see that, by the way. It looks like they scavenged it.”

Carolina and Kimball exchange another glance, this one slower and more serious. “It does,” Kimball says. “Which begs the question, where did they scavenge it from? And why did they have to?”

“Probably didn’t have legal access to it,” Tucker gasps. He keeps his gaze determinedly forward. “They probably weren’t supposed to have it. Or something. Whatever.”

“I don’t like it,” Carolina says, before emptying half of her clip into what Tucker assumes to be one of the aforementioned asshole soldiers. “I don’t like it at all.”

“Know what I don’t like?” Tucker grits out.

“Gee,” Grif says sarcastically. “I wonder—”

Grif’s voice cuts out with no warning. _Everything_ cuts out, sound and sight and sensation. When Tucker comes to, he’s lying on his back with Grif half on top of him.

“—the fuck was that?!” Grif is yelling. There’s something raining down on them and it feels like they’re underwater and the air is hazy and—

“Bomb,” Tucker gasps, as it becomes clear that the things falling on them are pieces of the ceiling.

“A fucking bomb,” Grif agrees grimly. “A _goddamn fucking_ —”

“Grif, cover the door! We have hostiles incoming!”

With a curse, Grif rolls off of him, and half stumbles, half crawls to the door. Tucker turns his head to track the movement, the simple motion taking far more effort than it should and sending a wave of nausea through him. “Bomb,” he mutters again, then blinks, glancing around more frantically. Kimball and Carolina are presumably outside, and Grif is edging closer and closer out the door and there’s no one else _here_ and this fucking knife is still in his _leg_ — “Grif—wait—”

“I’m right here,” Grif yells. “Just—hang on—gotta take these fucks out, they just keep coming—”

Tucker tries to pull himself up and fails miserably. Grif is out of sight, the nearby sounds from his pistol the only thing suggesting that he’s near. The plaster is still raining down on Tucker’s faceplate at an alarming rate, the smoke swirling thickly around him. A glance downward confirms that the hasty bandage wrapped around his leg is leaking, and the blood sends a fresh wave of adrenaline through his body, propelling him to a sit. Tucker leans against the wall and pants, trying to get his bearings as the ceiling falls down around him and the smoke thickens and the blood seeps through the bandage and he gags around the nausea—his hands fumble for the knife but they’re not working and he can’t—he _can’t_ —

 _What if I die here?_ he thinks wildly. He hadn’t realized how much the appearance of Grif and Kimball and Carolina and even _Epsilon_ had calmed him until they’d left the room and he was _alone_ with this knife in his leg—what if he _died_ here and no one found him and he was trapped under the falling rubble and he couldn’t get the knife out couldn’t get the knife out _couldn’t get the knife out_ —

“It’s about fucking _time_ —he’s in there!”

_“Tucker!”_

For a moment, Tucker thinks he’s dreaming, as Wash’s voice cuts through the smoke. Tucker has to blink several times to focus—it _looks_ like Wash’s armor, and it _sounds_ like Wash’s voice, but—

“You’re s’pposed to be in the Capital,” he mutters as Wash kneels next to him. “Those’rr the rules.”

“General Kimball called for backup,” Wash says, his hands passing over Tucker’s body. “Dr. James!”

Tucker catches Wash’s wrist and squeezes with a frown. “You feel real.”

Wash drops his other hand onto Tucker’s forehead. “I _am_ real. We’re going to get you out of here.”

“Coming, coming, hero coming through…”

Dr. James edges into his line of sight. Tucker knows that name, knows that voice—she was the one who’d patched his head up after _freckles shake_ and the collapsed tunnel. He watches her crouch down with a growing sense of unreality. It’s good that she’s here, because…because he needs a doctor, because he’s hurt and because there’s a knife in his leg—

“Wash,” he tries to say, but he can’t get past the first letter. He stops, tries again. _“W-wash_ —I—I—I—”

Wash glances from Tucker’s face, to the knife in his thigh, to Dr. James, before returning to Tucker’s face. “Tucker. Look at me. You’re going to be alright. Dr. James is going to take the knife out.” He glances back at her. “Right?”

“Oh yes,” she says, examining the wound. “If I pull it straight back, it won’t nick anything. Of course, I’ll need someone to stabilize the leg and you’ll have to hold very still—”

Despite this being the only thing he’s wanted for the last fifteen minutes, Tucker panics, grabbing at Wash’s arms. “No! It’s fine, you can just leave it in, I changed my mind, it’s fine, _I’m_ fine, I—”

“Tucker—”

“No! It can stay there, it—” he closes his eyes again, trying to suck in a breath and succeeding only marginally. “It’s gonna _hurt_ —”

“I know.”

He forces his eyes open to look at Wash as his hands cup around Tucker’s helmet. “I know. It _will_ hurt. But you’ll be okay.”

“I won’t,” Tucker says, aware that his voice sounds nothing short of hysterical but unable to do jack shit about it. “I won’t—Wash—I can’t, I _can’t_ …”

“Tucker.” Wash runs his hands over Tucker’s visor, as if he can actually feel his face. “You need to _breathe_. Count with me. One.”

Tucker shakes his head. He doesn’t need to count. He’s seen Wash count before. Counting means panic. Counting means going under. He’s _not_ panicking, he’s _not_ going under, he’s just—

He glances down at the knife in his thigh and lunges towards Dr. James when he sees her hands on his leg. “No! No, leave it, leave it, it’s fine, I—”

“Did I miss something?” Grif’s voice sounds from somewhere above him, and Tucker glances up to see Grif surveying the scene. “You were two seconds away from ripping that knife out yourself and now you want to leave it _in?_ ”

“Grif, come hold his leg still,” Dr. James says crisply. “This is coming out _now._ Wash—”

“Just give us a second, alright?”

“Wash…” Tucker tries to suck in a breath, grabbing desperately at Wash. “Wash—I---I—I feel like I’m _dying_ , I think I’m gonna die—”

“You’re not dying,” Wash says firmly. His rubs his thumbs along the chin of Tucker’s helmet, and Tucker pretends that he can actually feel Wash’s hands on his face. That always feels nice. Everything Wash does makes him feel nice. “You’re just having a panic attack. Look at me and count. Don’t look at the knife. Okay? One.” 

Count. He can count, because Wash is asking him too and he trusts Wash. “O-one.”

 “Good. Two.”

“T-t-two.”

“Three.”

“Th—FUCK!” There’s a sharp, stabbing pain in his leg, and he clutches harder at Wash, glancing towards his thigh.

Wash blocks his vision, swiftly turning his face away. “Really, Doctor?”

“You said three,” she tells him, nonplussed, and Tucker yells again the sharp sting of biofoam fills the wound, air whooshing blessedly into his lungs.

“That wasn’t why I was—never mind.” Wash glances back at Tucker. “Where’s the healing unit?”

“I-I-I gave it to Perry,” Tucker says. “I had to—he was bleeding—don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad,” Wash says. He’s still cupping Tucker’s face. “I’m proud of you. Heard you got that Pelican out.”

“Still got all f-f-fucked up myself, though.”

“That’s part of—”

“Well, if this isn’t just the most _touching_ shit I’ve seen all goddamn day.”

Wash moves faster than Tucker’s ever seen, whirling to a stand in front of the three of them, rifle up. He fires immediately, and the soldier leaps out of the way. Tucker doesn’t have to see the orange and grey accents to know who it is.

“ _Felix_ ,” Wash growls. He slams a new mag into his rifle and stalks forward. “Grif, cover them. I’ll take care of this.”

Tucker takes a moment to reflect on what a crying shame it is that it took him so long to develop an appreciation for Wash’s battlefield voice, and slowly pushes himself up to sit against the wall. Grif’s already on his feet, cursing and firing at another soldier coming through the doorway. Dr. James pulls out her own gun as well—she actually looks like she knows how to use it—and stands up in front of Tucker. “Hey, baby, I’m the soldier here, I’m supposed to be protecting you,” he protests weakly. Seeing as how he can barely keep himself propped up against the wall without sagging, he thinks it might fall a little flat.

Felix whirls back out from behind the corner, and Wash’s next shot catches him right in the shoulder. He jerks hard enough to drop the gun, which Wash kicks down the hallway. Felix instantly lunges in, tackling Wash to the ground and sending his gun flying as well, and then there’s the flash of something silver—

_“NO!”_

Tucker lunges away from the wall, the pain in his leg a distant thing, all that matters is that Felix has a knife and he’s going to—

Except Wash catches Felix’s arm and pulls his own knife out of nowhere. He misses Felix’s neck by inches, but Felix backs up enough for Wash to stand and then the world tips and sways—

Tucker is dimly aware of Grif charging forward to tackle someone coming through the doorway. Dr. James pulls Tucker back against the wall, one hand on his shoulder and the other on her pistol. He watches Wash and Felix fight, torn between terror and awe, because now he can see, can really _see_ , that Wash was going _so_ easy on him in training that it was laughable. Wash isn’t _good_ at knife fighting; Wash is _amazing_ at knife fighting, and it occurs to Tucker far too late that he should be recording this shit, not even for spank bank material but because watching Wash move with a knife in his hand is a fucking work of art.

Wash catches Felix around the midsection with a slash and Felix backs up, cursing fluently. “ _Motherfucker!_ You’re gonna fucking pay for that one, _Freelancer_ —”

“Not unless _you_ pay for it first,” Dr. James says dramatically, in a way that suggests she’s practiced this line in front of the mirror dozens of times. Tucker’s pretty sure the only reason her shot pings off Felix's helmet instead of punching straight through his visor is because Felix apparently decides that he has somewhere else to be, and starts backtracking.

Wash darts forward as if to pursue him, but as another _BOOM_ rocks the building, he changes tracks and dives at Grif instead. He tackles him out of the way just as half the ceiling caves in and crashes down on the soldier Grif was just grappling with.

“Holy _shit,_ ” Tucker hears Grif gasp, as Wash hauls him to his feet. “Alright, I owe you one.”

“Just cover me while I get Tucker out of here,” Wash says grimly. “Dr. James, you too.”

“We’re on it, Agent Washington,” Dr. James says, readying her pistol and coming to stand shoulder to shoulder with Grif.

“I think I can walk now,” Tucker mumbles, trying to get his feet under him as Wash starts over in his direction. “I can—”

He pitches forward, woozy, and Wash breaks his fall before scooping Tucker bridal style into his arms. “Dude,” he protests. “Seriously?”

“I’ve got you,” Wash says, in a voice that books no argument and also suggests that he will carry Tucker through hell itself if the need arises.

Tucker can’t bring himself to look at Grif—he’s _never_ going to live this down—but Wash isn’t even staggering under his weight. It _is_ pretty hot, and Tucker would be lying if he said he hadn’t fantasized about this exact scenario ever since he realized he was into dudes. Not that he wouldn’t be into a chick carrying him off the battlefield—Kai had been strong as _shit_ and he was super into that—but there’s something about the way Wash tucks him carefully against his broad chest that has Tucker feeling straight up warm and fuzzy. “My knight in shining armor,” he mumbles at Wash, right before he passes out.

* * *

He wakes up on the Pelican to Wash’s face over his and an uncanny sense of déjà vu.

Tucker jolts, hands flying to his abdomen in a momentary panic before his memory catches up. The pain in his leg follows shortly. Wash’s face clears as Tucker squints up at him. “You’re awake.”

“Everything hurts,” Tucker grumbles, then frowns, reaching up to touch a gash on Wash’s neck. “The fuck is that from?”

Wash smiles grimly. “Felix and I went for round two.”

“You kill the fucker?”

“Unfortunately not.” Wash reaches up to touch his neck absently. “I repaid him in kind, though. He’ll have a few new scars.”

“So will I,” Tucker says, his hand moving towards his leg. “Fucked it up. _Again_.”

“You didn’t fuck anything up,” Wash says sternly. “From what I hear, you saved Captain Perry’s life.”

Tucker perks up at that. “He’s alive?”

“He was the first one into surgery. Dr. Grey says without the healing unit, he wouldn’t have made it.”

Tucker allows the relief to course through him before shaking his head. “Still. Backup had to come… _you_ had to come…”

“It wasn’t just you who needed backup,” Wash tells him gently. “You were all overrun.”

“I freaked out,” he whispered. “I would’ve ripped that knife out, if Carolina hadn’t…if Grif…”

“They came for you,” Wash says, the words falling from his mouth almost reverently. “That’s what teams do.”

Coming from anyone else, the words would sound absurdly corny. They still sound corny, coming from Wash, but they sound true, too, and Tucker nods, his eyelids beginning to droop again. A flash of orange catches his eye, and he reaches out his arm to snag Grif as he walks past. “Thanks, man.”

Grif’s helmet is off, and he looks positively alarmed at the cadence in Tucker’s voice. “Are you dying?”

“No,” Tucker mutters. “Not dying. Thanks to you.”

“Oh, geez,” Grif sighs. He shifts awkwardly, but Tucker holds tight to his wrist. “Really, Tucker? Are we _really_ having a moment?”

“Saved my life,” Tucker says, trying to make it sound gruff and dramatic, like Wash would, but failing miserably.

“Dude, all I did was tell you to stop being a little bitch. They don’t hand out medals for that.”

“They should.”

There. That sounds better. If Tucker didn’t know Grif so well, he’d miss the almost imperceptible way his jaw tightens. “Whatever. You’re welcome. I guess.” He shifts, casting a desperate look at Wash. “How do you put up with this?”

“It’s not always easy,” Wash says around a smile, “but I manage.”

Grif gives Tucker a hearty slap on the arm with his free hand. “Alright, get your goddamn beauty sleep, we’re almost back.”

He doesn’t want to get his beauty sleep—he wants to stay here, with Wash’s hand on his forehead and Grif grumbling away and he has to thank Carolina, too—but sleep finds him nonetheless, and he drifts off to the sound of Wash and Grif’s voices, to the sound of his team, carrying him home.


	19. Chapter 19

Tucker spends the next week in the infirmary recovering from the stab wound to his leg. Wash does his best not to hover, torn between acting like this isn’t a big deal and comforting Tucker, who seems to want different things at different times. Day one, the two of them have a long, circular argument about whether or not Tucker should keep the healing unit with him to expedite his recovery. They compromise with the understanding that Tucker will keep the healing unit only if there _isn’t_ a mission going on. Tucker spends most of day three cracking jokes about how he’s becoming a human pin cushion to anyone who will listen, until Britton bursts into tears across the infirmary and Perry tells him off for being an insensitive asshole. On day five, he mutters to Wash that they could _probably_ both fit in the infirmary bed if Wash _wanted_ to stay the night, not that he _had_ to, just if he _wanted_ to, it wasn’t a big _deal_ —

To the delight of half the infirmary, Wash shoves him over and climbs straight into the bed next to Tucker. His dignity has long since left the building and besides, Tucker conks out against his chest in about five minutes and doesn’t move all night.

“That is the most _romantic_ thing I’ve ever seen,” Kennedy whispers reverently from five beds over, and Wash throws a pillow at him and tells him to go to sleep.

* * *

The first day Tucker’s cleared for training, he marches right into the training room and shoves Wash’s case of knives at him. “Alright, let’s fucking _do_ this.”

Wash glances from the knives to Tucker’s face. “Do…what?”

“Do our training,” Tucker says impatiently. “For _real_ this time. I know you’ve been fucking holding back on me when we spar.”

Ah. “Of course I’ve been holding back,” Wash says. “You wouldn’t _learn_ anything if I didn’t go easy on you at first.”

Tucker snorts. “You haven’t been going _easy_ on me. You’ve been like, completely toying with me. I was _there_ when you and Felix had that little showdown, remember? That was like, some _Matrix_ level shit you did, when you…”

Tucker makes a dramatic twirling gesture with his hands that Wash assumes is supposed to represent something he did during the knife fight. “Tucker, I _have_ been increasing the intensity as you’ve gotten better—which you _have_ , you know.”

“Whatever.” Tucker drops Wash’s gym bag on the ground and starts tossing stuff out of it until he finds the red chalk. He grabs two of the biggest knives he can find with blunted edges, shoves one at Wash, and keeps one for himself. “Increase the intensity all the fucking way, then.”

Wash eyes him suspiciously, but there’s a surprising lack of fear in Tucker’s eyes. The fear is _there_ , Wash is sure, but there’s a hard determination layered over it—determination and something…something _playful._

“I want to _not_ be afraid,” Tucker says bluntly, when Wash continues to stare at him. “I’m tired of being scared of this shit. Let’s just fucking rip the band-aid off. Please?”

There’s an honest vulnerability in his words that takes Wash’s breath away for a moment, leaving him both indescribably proud and fiercely jealous all at once. The feeling catches him off guard so much so that he barely manages to bat Tucker’s arm aside when he lunges at him. Tucker raises his eyebrows. “We gonna spar, or are you gonna stand there and _stare_ at me for the rest of the goddamn day?”

Wash pivots in with his own strike that Tucker parries. He catches Tucker’s blade with his own, forces the arc of it up, and gets in a light strike to Tucker’s abdomen. When Tucker brings his hands down instinctually to block, Wash draws a long red stripe across his throat.

Tucker flinches only minimally, diving in so quickly that he very nearly catches Wash on the arm with his own knife. “Good,” Wash says in approval. “You used your speed, that was good.”

Despite his best efforts, Tucker still keeps dancing away from him, constantly skittering backwards and out of reach. The fifth time he does this, something clicks in Wash’s brain. “You’re afraid to stay tight to me,” he realizes, lowering his knife.

Tucker follows suit, waggling his eyebrows. “Uh, I promise you I’m _not,_ dude.” He huffs when Wash doesn’t react. “Okay, well, _obviously_ , why the fuck would I _want_ to stay close when you’re waving a knife at me?”

Wash is already turning around, rummaging in the training room closet. “I can’t _believe_ I didn’t think of this earlier,” he mutters, half to himself. “Let me just see if I can find—a- _ha!_ ”

He emerges, triumphant, with a box of old leather jump ropes. Tucker stares at him as if he’s lost his mind. “What the fuck are we gonna do with those?”

“You’re fast, but you don’t use it,” Wash explains as he fishes two of the ropes out of the box. “You spend too much time moving backwards—it wastes your energy, your _speed._ If you stay close to your opponent, then you’ll be able to go for the kill that much quicker.”

He ties two of the ropes together, loops one end around his waist, and gestures towards Tucker. Tucker eyes him warily, but he approaches nonetheless, and stares as Wash ties the other end of the rope around Tucker’s waist.

“So, is this like some _kinky_ thing you’re into, or—”

Wash rolls his eyes. “No. It’s— _look_. You have to stay close now, see?” He backs away as far as he can and holds his arm out. Even at its fullest extension, he can still touch Tucker’s shoulder. “The rope keeps us close.”

“Like a leash?” Tucker asks. His voice is innocent but everything in his eyes screams _DIRTY_ , and Wash has to fight to keep the blush off of his face.

“Something like that,” he says, and assumes his fighting stance. “Let’s try it. Just like before, okay?”

It’s awkward and clumsy at first. Tucker keeps trying to pull backwards, dragging Wash with him in the process, and they end up on the floor more than once. Yet the ridiculousness of the situation has Tucker relaxing in a way Wash hasn’t seen yet, and when he finally, _finally_ lands a hit on Wash, the comprehension dawns so clearly in his eyes that he actually gasps out loud.

“Holy _shit_ , I did it! Did you see that? I just— ” He gestures dramatically with the knife. “And you just—and I was _close_ so it—”

Wash beams at him. “You see? You’re _fast_.”

“Fuck yeah I am,” Tucker crows, and he moves in again.

By the end of the hour, they are both panting and covered in red chalk. Tucker reaches up and rubs his fingers through Wash’s hair, snickering. “You’ve got chalk all up in your blond-ass hair, dude. That’s cute.”

“Wh—well, you’ve got it on your _face,_ ” Wash sputters, wiping his thumb along the side of Tucker’s jaw.

Tucker turns his mouth to Wash’s palm and presses a kiss there. “I geo it,” he says, eyes bright, voice bubbling over with excitement. “I like—I really _got_ it, you know?”

“I know. You did great, you—I’m proud of you.”

“Yeah?” Tucker asks, then grins. “ _Yeah_. I—me too. Fuck me man, I wasn’t—I wasn’t even _scared_. I was just focused, and like, ready to fucking _go_.”

There it is again—the bold, open honesty that leaves Wash breathless and envious all at once. Breathless, because Tucker is beautiful in his bravery, gorgeous in how he picks himself up, time and time again—

Envious, because the honest way in which Tucker speaks about his struggles is a foreign thing to Wash, and he wonders for the first time, what he’s missing because of it.

* * *

They spend the rest of the day barely able to keep their hands off of each other.

Tucker is giddy and hyper from his success in the day’s training, and Wash finds himself drawn to Tucker’s beaming smile like a magnet. Every abandoned hallway feels illicit, every supply closet charged with electricity, and the third time Tucker tries to drag him into one, Wash plants his feet reluctantly. “Later,” he gasps as Tucker wrenches his helmet off and starts necking him. “Tuc—ker… _later_. I have work to do.”

Tucker groans and pulls away. “Okay, _okayokayokay._ Fucking…” he jams his own helmet back on. “Fucking message me the second your ass is free.”

That night, when they finally find themselves alone in Wash’s room, they can’t get each other’s armor off fast enough. The places where their skin touches burns so hot that Wash thinks he’s melting right into Tucker’s hands. Tucker’s touch is insistent and sure, and Wash arches into it gladly. “Mmmm,” Tucker sighs against his ear. He presses Wash a little harder against the door and tightens his grip in Wash’s hair. “You like that, Wash?”

Wash makes a strangled noise of assent and Tucker spins him around, pressing Wash’s chest against the door. His teeth dig just hard enough into the skin of Wash’s neck, just enough that Wash is pretty sure he’s going to have marks tomorrow. The thought sends a fresh wave of arousal through him, and he paws at the wall for lack of anything else to hold onto, grinding his dick against the door in front of him. He groans in relief when Tucker’s hand slides down to rub at him through his fatigues, and he arches forward into the contact.

Tucker grinds his own cock against Wash’s ass, panting in his ear. “Shit that’s hot,” he groans. “God. Gonna fuck you _so hard_.”

“Please do,” Wash gasps, rolling his hips back against Tucker’s until the action earns him another one of those delicious moans.

“Yeah? _Please?”_ Tucker bites down hard on the shell of Wash’s ear. “Wonder what _else_ I can get you to beg me for.”

He pulls Wash’s body away from the door, and they stumble towards the bed. Tucker twists one of Wash’s arms behind his back and pushes him face-forward onto the bed. He grips a fistful of Wash's hair with one hand, and uses the other to pin both wrists at the small of Wash’s back. Wash struggles against the grip, more out of instinct than because he really wants to break away, but the shove has brought his legs up off the floor and he doesn't get very far.

Something coils low in his abdomen at the feel of Tuckers hands holding so tight to his wrists and his hair. He tests the resistance but Tucker’s grip holds fast, and it’s unexpectedly relaxing and pleasant and _just right_. Something liquefies in his spine, leeching the tension out of his bones, and Wash tests Tucker’s grip again—it doesn’t break and that’s good, _so good_ , Tucker’s mouth is back on his ear and—

_—they’d held him down just like this when they’d ripped Epsilon straight out of his head, one hand in his hair to keep his head still and the other pinning his wrists and he’d screamed and Epsilon had howled and they’d held so tight to each other as he was torn out leaving something aching and bloody straight down the center of Wash’s mind and—_

Panic explodes in his gut and in his head all at once, robbing him of his breath, and for a few heart-stopping moments he can’t move. He could get out of this if he really wanted to, he _knows_ that, but he limbs are frozen and he spends several more seconds struggling minutely before he manages to gasp, "Tucker, wait, _wait_ —"

His voice comes out high and anxious, and Tucker backs off immediately, scrambling away from Wash as if he's been electrocuted. "Ah, shit,  _shit_ , that was so fucking stupid of me, fuck, I'm _sorry_ —I thought you liked it the other day, when I—"

Wash rolls over to a sitting position on the edge of the bed, and shakes his head. "No—I _did_ —it’s—it’s just...just give me a second..."

He hates the panic in his voice, hates the tremors he can feel coursing through his body, but most of all, he hates the way that Tucker has retreated across the room from him as far as he can go. The space between them feels miles wide, and Wash reaches out a hand, hesitates, then lets it fall. "Fuck me," he groans, and buries his face in his hands.

He can feel Tucker moving back across the room towards him. The bed dips moments later, and he hears Tucker’s voice. “Hey.”

"I'm sorry," Wash mutters into his hands, face burning with embarrassment. “I’m _sorry_.”

" _Hey._ Don't you _dare_ fucking apologize." Tucker puts a hand on Wash’s knee and shakes. "Wash. Fucking _look_ at me."

"I just...I didn't mean to...it's not..."

Tucker gives his knee a little squeeze. "Stop it.  _I'm_  sorry. I should've known holding you down like that would freak you the fuck out."

"No—it wasn’t—it _wasn’t_ …” Wash lifts his head. He can’t look at Tucker yet, and keeps his gaze forward. “I _did_ like it. I just—wasn’t expecting it, and I…”

"We need safe word," Tucker says suddenly, and Wash finally looks at him, surprised. "Fuck, I don't know why I didn't think of this before. We  _definitely_  need a safe word if we're gonna be doing this."

"A safe word?"

"Yeah, you know, like a word one of us can say when—"

"I know what a safe word is," says Wash, and rolls his eyes a little. “I _have_ had sex before, you know.”

Tucker grins. “Oh _trust_ me, I can fucking _tell._ No confusion over here.”

“I meant...you think we _need_ one? A safe word?" He doesn't say, y _ou want to keep doing this often enough that we need a safe word? Really? You’re sure?_

Tucker seems to understand the real question and his grin gets wider. "Oh, we need one, alright. I'm not even halfway through the list of things I want to do to you."

"There's a _list?_ " Wash says, trying to sound exasperated, but he thinks it falls a little flat given the intrigue that’s coloring his tone.

"Oh, there's a _list._ " Tucker winks at him, then his expression turns thoughtful. "So, the word. What about a color? That's pretty standard. Red? I mean, I don’t really wanna think about the Reds during sex, so I think it’s pretty perfect."

"Red is fine."

"Okay, so, if one of us gets a little freaked out, we just say red, and the other person stops immediately."

Wash nods. "Yeah. That sounds good."

Tucker gives his knees another squeeze, then pushes himself to his feet. "Hey." He drops his forehead to Wash's, cupping a hand over the back of Wash's neck. "I would never hurt you, dude. You know that, right?"

"I know," says Wash, and he does. "I...trust you."

Tucker stands up, stretching his arms over his head. “Wanna go get some food? Grif says it’s taco night in the mess hall.

Wash frowns, reaching for him. “We can still—I didn’t mean to—we can still…have sex.”

Tucker shrugs easily, catching Wash’s outstretched hand and pulling him to his feet. “Maybe after dinner, yeah? I’m starving.”

Wash takes a moment to be grateful for the fact that Tucker is currently dragging him towards the door and can’t see his face. He doesn’t know what it looks like, but he’s sure it’s moony and ridiculous and—

Utterly, absurdly, _madly_ in love. 

* * *

 

Wash knocks long and loud on Dr. Grey’s door the next morning, and waits until he hears her cheery voice beckoning him inside to enter. Even then, he eyes the room suspiciously. “Is anyone else in here?”

Dr. Grey makes a show of looking around the room as well. “Hmmmmm, _well_ , unless I’m hiding someone under my desk, then I _do_ think we are alone, Wash.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you to hide Sarge under your desk,” he says calmly, pulling out the chair across from her and taking a seat, helmet in his lap.

Dr. Grey positively cackles, her face lighting up in delight. “ _Ooooooh,_ you _have_ been spending a lot of time with Captain Tucker, haven’t you?” She leans forward, propping her chin up on her elbows. “Tell me, when did you two _really_ find yourself in the throes for the first time?”

Wash has to think for a moment before he realizes what she’s getting at. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you _do_.” She gives him a look. “Wash, _please_. That kiss in front of Miss Britton and her friends was certainly not your first. Quite a performance, though! I was rather impressed with your acting abilities.”

Wash is fairly certain that she’s fucking with him—he and Tucker’s performance in the infirmary hadn’t even been soap opera worthy. “It was a few weeks before that,” he admits, then thinks. “Uh…the 20th, maybe? _Don’t_ say anything—”

“Of course I won’t say anything,” Dr. Grey says, sounded offended at the very suggestion. “Goodness me, you should have _heard_ those kids carrying on when Britton won the bet! I’m fairly certain there’s a Basebook fan page for you two.” She smiles at him. “That was a very sweet thing you both did.”

“It was Tucker’s idea,” Wash says quickly. “He came up with it.”

“But you went along with it,” Dr. Grey tells him gently, and for the first time, Wash sees it, really _sees_ the effortless, unconscious way in which he directs all credit away from himself. It reminds him of why he’s here, and he refocuses, fidgeting with the pens on her desk.

“Tucker seems to be making you _very_ happy,” Dr. Grey says casually, typing something into her datapad. Her tone is light and inconsequential, but she is watching him closely in between swipes on her screen.

“Yes,” Wash says. Start simple. Start honest. “He does. I’m—I’m sleeping better, with him…there, but I still…”

“Have nightmares?”

Her voice is still casual and easy, and Wash lets himself relax a little deeper into the chair. “Yes.”

“I thought you would,” Dr. Grey says. “Is that why you’re here?”

“No,” Wash says slowly. “Well—yes—sort of—but…”

He trails off, thinking again, of the way Tucker had held him down on the mattress. Of how it had felt _good_ , and how he’d felt _safe_ , until that memory had burst in with no warning—

“I think I have PTSD.”

To her credit, Dr. Grey does not sneer or roll her eyes, for which Wash is endlessly grateful. She simply places her datapad down and folds her hands on top of it, looking at him. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

Wash nods, hands clenching around his helmet even as some of the tension leaves his shoulders. _“Let’s just rip the fucking band-aid off,”_ Tucker had said, shoving the case of knives at him, so bold and brave.

“He—held me down,” Wash blurts. “Tucker. Not—not in, like—we were…were….”

“Being intimate?”

He nods, relieved. “Yes. I— _liked_ it. A lot. But when they pulled Epsilon out, they held me down like that, and it...” He breaks off, shaking his head angrily. “I can’t even have _sex_ without—”

Dr. Grey reaches a hand across the desk to cover Wash’s—which, he realizes belatedly, he has started bouncing against the desk in agitation. “Wash.”

He stops, letting her hold onto his clenched fist. “Anyway, that was when I knew,” he says abruptly. “I know it’s—I know it’s _stupid_ —”

“It’s not,” Dr. Grey says. “It’s _not_ stupid, Wash. PTSD affects many different aspects of your life and sometimes it’s the little things that hit the hardest.”

“I hurt Tucker.” He pulls his hand away and curls it against his chest. “He woke me up while I was dreaming, and I…I grabbed him. I left a bruise on one of his arms. I could’ve…” he glances up, voice suddenly fierce. “ _Don’t_ say it’s nothing.”

“I’m not.”

“I could’ve really _hurt_ him.”

“I know.”

“I could have _killed him.”_

“I know.”

“He doesn’t _understand_ that. He doesn’t…” Wash unclenches his fist, running his fingers through his hair, the strands catching in his gloves. “I told him he has to sleep with a gun close so that if he can’t call for help, then he can use it.”

Dr. Grey straightens at that, narrowing her eyes at him. “Washington. It’s unfair of you to ask Tucker to do that if—”

“It’s not unfair,” Wash says, firing up at once. “It’s not _unfair_ to ask him to _protect himself_ —”

She holds up her hand, silencing him. “It’s unfair to ask him to do that _if_ you aren’t going to seek help yourself.”

Wash gestures around her office. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” she says. “You are.”

She smiles at him then. It’s not condescending, or pitying, or even sympathetic. She just smiles, and in it, he sees the woman who has become his friend, the Doctor who put all the chips and wires back in their proper places inside his brain.

Maybe— _just maybe_ —she could be something else, too. Maybe she could help him sort the boxes of memories, and put them away for good.

“I don’t like therapy.” He fiddles with the radio dial on his helmet. “I—it’s hard.”

“It is,” she says encouragingly. “It _absolutely_ is, Wash, but you’ve already done the hardest part. You’re _here_.”

He nods. “I know that I’ll have to…to talk about the things that were my fault, and what I could have done differently to fix them.”

She tilts her head at him a little, frowning. “What you could’ve—I’m sorry?”

“What I could’ve done differently,” he repeats. “You know—different scenarios. Ways I could’ve handled things better.”

There’s the briefest look of alarm on Dr. Grey’s face before she smooths it out. “Wash.” She hesitates. “That isn’t…that isn’t how therapy _works._ Berating yourself with what-ifs—it doesn’t help you heal. It’s…well, quite frankly, it’s _cruel._ ”

“I’ve been in therapy before,” he says, annoyed. “And I know it isn’t easy, but—”

“When?”

“What?”

“ _When_ were you in therapy?”

“After…” he gestures at the back of his head. “After Freelancer. After Epsilon.”

“That’s what your therapist did? Ran you through scenarios of things you could have done differently?”

 _Scenarios like they ran Alpha through,_ something whispers in his mind, something that sounds just like Epsilon’s voice. Wash pushes the parallel aside. There’s a weird panic rising up in his throat that he can’t quite name. “I— _yes_. He would ask where I thought I went wrong, with Epsilon, and with the project, and what I could have done better.”

“Who is he?”

There’s a sliver of steel in Dr. Grey’s voice that Wash has never heard before. “The Counselor,” he says blankly. “The Counselor. Of Project Freelancer.”

“The Counselor,” she says briskly. “And how did you feel, after your sessions with him?”

Wash doesn’t have to strain to remember that. “Confused. Angry—regretful.” He hesitates before adding, “Sad.”

Dr. Grey blows out a breath. There’s something he’s missing, Wash knows, and it’s setting his teeth on edge. “What?” he asks urgently, gripping his helmet tightly. _“What?”_

“Wash, I’m not sure just how much these _doctors_ —” she practically spits the word— “of yours were helping you heal.”

“Doc _tor_ ,” he says, so fiercely that she frowns. “Doc _tor_. The surgeon who operated on me—my nurses—they saved my _life._ Not just physically. They kept the Director and the Counselor away from me long enough for me to…to at least form coherent sentences.”

“So this man who ran your therapy sessions—the Counselor—was trying to see you _days_ after you had brain surgery?”

“Yes.” She’s still looking at him in alarm, and it’s making Wash feel foolish. “Look, I know that he—the Counselor—was a liar. He and the Director manipulated all of us—my friends—the A.I.—all of us. I’m not _stupid,_ I _know_ that.”

“So you know that you were being manipulated during these therapy sessions, then?”

Wash falters. “Well—I mean—” The panicky feeling is back, and he squares his shoulders, leaning into it. “Explain—explain what you mean.”

Dr. Grey seems to sense the panic in his voice, because she faces him head on, looking him in the eyes. “Wash. I don’t have all of the details about your time in recovery, but…what you went through wasn’t therapy. Not in the slightest.”

“Then what was it?” he interrupts, impatient. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

“Wash, it sounds to me like you were psychologically abused.”

His mind feels oddly quiet at those words, thoughts drifting across it like tumbleweeds. He grabs one, latches on. “ _Me?_ ”

She nods, still watching him closely. “Wash, you were _all_ abused during the Project. You, Agent Carolina, the sim troopers— _all_ of you. And this—having this man, the Counselor, speak to you about these events after a major surgery and trauma—telling you it’s your _fault_ , asking what you could have done _differently_ ….that’s not therapy, Wash. That’s not how you heal.”

Wash looks at her. Looks at the pen in her hands, the helmet in his own. Looks inward, to the feeling of panic constricting his chest. Clenches it tight in his fists and turns it to smoke.

He looks up at Dr. Grey.

“How _do_ you heal?”

* * *

Wash leaves Dr. Grey’s office with his datapad clenched tightly in his fists, examining the schedule she’s laid out for him. Twice a week. One hour, twice a week, early in the morning. “Just talking,” she’d told him gently. “Let’s just start there. Just talking. It doesn’t have to be in my office. It can be wherever you like. Somewhere you feel safe.”

The idea of talking about Freelancer and Epsilon grates his nerves in an entirely different way, but in a perverse twist, he’s almost eager for it. Maybe he _could_ heal. Maybe he could box the memories up even tighter. Maybe he could learn to sleep, _really_ sleep, and not have to worry about hurting Tucker. Maybe he could have a sex life without flashing back to the worst day of his life.

Maybe he could figure out why he can’t stop thinking about Tucker’s hands around his wrists.

The memory comes to him at the most inopportune moments. In the mess hall. In the middle of training. On a mission. It comes to him absently, a warm buzz in the base of his skull and a low heat coiled in his abdomen. He wonders what would’ve happened if he hadn’t freaked out—

 _If your PTSD hadn’t flared up,_ Wash corrects himself, a spoonful of oatmeal halfway to his mouth. Dr. Grey had said it was important to try to trace these thoughts back to their source, and he’s started to see what she means. It’s— _helpful,_ somehow, to have something to explain so many of his reactions. Not an excuse, but an _explanation._ An explanation for so many things.

He lets the thought flit past his mind before refocusing on Tucker and the weight behind his hands. He wonders if Tucker would’ve held him down the whole time, would have fucked him with his hands wrapped around Wash’s wrists. He wonders if he would’ve found something else to hold him down so he could use his hands for _other_ things. If he would’ve been gentle with his touches or if he would’ve gripped Wash’s skin hard enough to leave marks. If he would’ve talked the whole time. If he would’ve made Wash _beg_ —

Wash stands up suddenly, his oatmeal untouched and his face hot. For a moment, he stands there frozen, helmet clutched in his hands and torn by indecision. This is stupid. He shouldn’t—it doesn’t—it’s _stupid,_ the way he can’t stop thinking about it, about Tucker’s hands—

About the way everything inside of him had _relaxed_ and turned to liquid—

 _Wash, you were_ all _abused during the project._

 _The project, the project, the project._ The goddamned _project_ that had taken everything from him, from _all_ of them. Maine’s voice and South’s self-confidence and Carolina’s laughter. They’d taken his team. They’d taken his _family_. They’d taken Epsilon, they’d taken Wash’s sanity, they’d taken his ability to sleep and to trust and—

_They’re not taking this, too._

Wash sets his jaw and turns on his heel, jamming his helmet on. He strides purposefully across the base, hands clenched nervously at his side, until he reaches his destination. He enters the weight room to find Carolina half out of her armor and doing bicep curls on one of the benches, Epsilon perched on top of her nearby helmet.

“Um,” Wash says, by way of announcing himself.

Carolina throws him a half glance. “Hi,” she says, voice a little breathless. “Did you want to work in a set?”

“No,” Wash says, and after a bit of internal debate, unlatches his helmet. He turns it over in his hands a few times. “I have a. Question. For you.”

“Okay,” Carolina says. She lifts an eyebrow when he doesn’t answer. “What is it?”

Wash clears his throat. Puts his helmet back on, takes it off again. Sets it on the ground beside his feet and crosses his arms. “So…”

Carolina finishes her set and casts an annoyed glance at Wash. "Out with it, Wash."

"I was hoping you could tell me," Wash asks, in the most casual voice he can manage, "where to find some good rope around here."

Carolina fumbles the weight she is currently re-racking, setting it down with an echoing bang.

“Oh, my _God_ ,” Epsilon says, to no one in particular. “This is all of my nightmares come true at once.”

Wash ignores him as Carolina spins to look at Wash. Opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again and says, "How do you know about that?"

Wash keeps his face and his voice as blank as possible. "Know about what?"

Carolina stares at him. Wash stares back.

She folds her arms across her chest, narrowing her eyes. "What are you up to?"

Wash shifts. "I mean, do you want _details_ , or—"

"Does this have something to do with where you went when you disappeared for nearly twenty-four hours last week?"

Wash has to think for a moment to remember what she’s talking about before the memory comes back to him. He and Tucker had both had most of the day off at the same time, and had taken full advantage. Still. "What— that's not— it wasn't  _twenty-four hours_ —"

"It was pretty close. Grif says he finally found you skulking around the B-Wing, and you came up with some lame excuse about  _weapons cataloguing._ The weapons are in the F-wing." Carolina raises an eyebrow. "Am I about to get the _real_ story?"

"I had to...the weapons needed to be...you're taking _Grif's_ word on this?"

"Wash..." Carolina sighs. "Look, just be careful."

Her words catch him off guard. "What?"

"Are you the one using the rope, or the one the rope is going to be used on?"

Wash is rapidly regretting ever starting this conversation, particularly when Epsilon drags both hands down his visor. “C, please. You are _killing me here._ ”

To Wash’s horror, Carolina launches into full-on lecture mode. "Because if it's the latter, then I _really_ think you need to be careful. I’m not sure if you remember, but you went out of your mind when they tried to restrain you after your reaction to the sedatives in Freelancer. Something like this could be very triggering for you—you should only be doing this with someone you trust and—”

" _Carolina._ " Wash closes his eyes in embarrassment. "It's...yes. It's someone I trust."

Carolina glares at him suspiciously for a moment before her face clears. " _Ohh._ "

"What—what does that mean?  _Ohh_?"

"Nothing." She's already turning back to her weights. "Lower level, storage closet F5. Use the red rope, not the black."

Wash forces his face back into an expression of careful neutrality. "Okay. Uh, thanks boss."

She rolls her eyes at him. "You're welcome, Wash." 

* * *

Wash stands outside of Tucker's door that evening for several minutes, twisting the rope around in his hands. Carolina's recommendation is good: it's sturdy, but soft and light. He knocks on the door and Tucker sighs from inside. "Who is it?"

He pushes open the door and pokes his head in. "It's me." 

Tucker's face brightens in a way that makes Wash feel warm all over. "Oh, great. C'mere." He frowns at the look on Wash’s face. “What’s up?"

Wash clears his throat, realizes he has no idea what he wants to say, and ends up placing the rope in Tucker's lap without a word. Tucker blinks, picking up the rope and sliding it between his hands. He glances up at Wash. "You brought rope?"

He'd been hoping that Tucker would just sort of get to it, and they wouldn't have to have any sort of Conversation, but it doesn't look like that's going to happen. "Yeah. I thought we could...try again."

"Try what again?"

"Try..." Wash gestures. "Try whatever you were going to try the other day."

Tucker stares at him.

Wash rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “You know what, never mind, this is stupid—”

“Wait,” Tucker interrupts, comprehension dawning his eyes. "Wait, you want me to…to tie you up?"

"Well...I mean..." the stunned expression on Tucker's face is unnerving him, and he tries to backtrack. "Only if you _want,_ we don't have—"

"Are you _serious?_ ”

Wash is starting to wish he’d never brought this up. Or been born, come to that. “Never mind, I’m gonna go—”

“Wait!” Tucker snags his arm as Wash turns away. “Oh my God, don’t you _dare_ leave.”

“I just—” Wash has no idea why he feels so nervous and flustered, like a goddamned _teenager_ before his first kiss, but he finds it impossible to look Tucker in the eyes. _This is Tucker_ , he reminds himself. _Just you, and just Tucker_. “I just thought…it might be something…we don’t have to, if you don’t want to…”

“Wash _, please._ This is like, _all_ of my fantasies about to come true at once.”

“This is stupid,” Wash mutters at the floor, and suddenly Tucker’s tilting his neck to meet Wash’s eyes.

“Hey. Why do you always say that?” He sighs when Wash doesn’t answer, tugging at his arm until Wash sits next to him on the bed. “Dude. You’re being weird. What’s up?”

“I don’t…” Wash reaches for the rope he’d placed in Tucker’s lap, twisting it between his hands. “I don’t…want to make this all about me, or…make you do all the work…I’m not…”

“Uhhh, if you’re thinking I’m not totally gonna get off on tying you up and getting to do whatever I want to drive you crazy, you are like, _one hundred percent wrong_.”

Wash feels something hot twist in his abdomen at the way Tucker actually _shudders_ at the thought, and it makes him feel a little better. “Okay…”

Tucker looks at him, long and hard, before taking Wash’s face in his hands and dropping a firm kiss onto the top of his head. “Besides,” he murmurs into Wash’s hair. “Why _can’t_ it be all about you sometimes?”

To his absolute horror, Wash feels his throat start to close up. “I don’t know,” he says, and that’s it, that’s _it_ , right there.

Tucker says nothing for a while, just pulls Wash tight against his chest and presses another kiss to the top of his head. “You can ask for good things, you know,” he says after a while. “ _Especially_ in the bedroom. Like, I will _literally_ fuck you any way you want.”

Wash laughs at that. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah,” Tucker says. “Nothing is off the table. You wanna do something, you just say the fucking word and I will make it happen. You want me to tie you up? Done. You’re into video cameras? Fucking sold. You want to turn that threesome with Grey and Sarge into a foursome? Dude, as long as I don’t have to kiss Sarge on the mouth then I’d be willing to—”

“Oh my god, _please_ stop,” Wash groans, but he’s grinning. He pulls away enough to tug Tucker’s chin down towards his own. The kiss is soft and sweet until it’s hot and dirty and Tucker’s murmuring the most ridiculous, obscene things into his mouth and Wash starts laughing into the kiss. He’s still laughing when they pull away.

“Now,” Tucker says, snatching the rope back from Wash. “Down to business. _Dirty_ business. The way more important question here is, are you _sure?_ ”

"I'm sure."

Tucker eyes him. "Okay, but you have to promise me something."

"Okay..."

"You have to promise me that you're not gonna treat this like some kind of RTI training session."

That throws Wash off. "What?"

"If we're doing this, and you start freaking out, don't push yourself through it because you feel like it's an obstacle you've gotta overcome or some bullshit."

"I…wouldn't do that."

Tucker doesn't look convinced in the slightest. "Because it's not. This is sex, not, like, an interrogation.   It's supposed to be fun."

"I _know_ , Tucker."

"I'm only saying. You weren't just uncomfortable when I held you down the other day. You were  _scared_ for a second there. We're not doing this if you're just trying to prove a point to yourself."

Wash flushes a little. He'd been seriously underestimating just how well Tucker knew him. "Okay, okay, point taken. But it's...it's not that."

"So what is it?"

"It's that I... _liked_ it. It caught me off guard, when you did that, but after, I couldn't stop thinking about...what would've happened, if we'd kept going." He nods at the rope. "So, I want to find out.”

Tucker's still sliding the rope through his hands in a very distracting sort of way. "Okay. Just promise me that you'll use the safe word if you want to stop."

"I promise."

"I _mean it,_ Wash. If I find out later that you made me do something that had you panicking the whole time, I will be _seriously_ pissed off."

There's a sharp, sensitive note in Tucker's voice that makes Wash sit up and look at him a little more closely. He reaches out and runs a hand down Tucker's arm, ending with a squeeze to his hand. "I wouldn't do that to you, Tucker." 

Tucker holds his gaze for a moment longer before nodding, sliding his body behind Wash’s. Wash closes his eyes as Tucker's hands travel down his back and across his shoulders, tracing circles as he moves them down Wash’s arms to hold his wrists and pausing there. “Maybe I shouldn’t tie them behind your back. Did it freak you out not seeing me?”

Wash considers. “I don’t think so,” he says slowly. “I’ll know you’re there. And I’ll be able to hear your voice.”

“Fuck yeah you will.” Tucker bites playfully at his ear. “You know I’m a dirty talker.”

Slowly, _slowly,_ he draws Wash's arms behind his back, starting to bind them at the wrists. He hesitates halfway through. “Hmm. Aren’t there like, all those artsy fucking knots and shit that we should be using? Maybe I should look them up. Don’t wanna cut off your circulation or something.”

“I’m sure a basic knot will be—”

But Tucker’s halfway across the room, kicking clothes and bits of armor aside until he finds his datapad. He bounds back on the bed and resumes his position behind Wash, the datapad held in front of both of them and his head propped up on Wash’s shoulder. “I’ve only ever used handcuffs,” Tucker explains cheerfully as he types something in and starts rifling through photographs. “Like, those pink fluffy kind. Smart idea bringing rope, though. Handcuffs would probably freak you out, right? ‘Cause of prison and all that.”

“Oh…uh, I guess.” The thought hadn’t even occurred to Wash. In hindsight, it seems rather obvious. He focuses on Tucker’s other statement instead. “You’ve used the handcuffs on other people? Or on yourself?”

“Both,” Tucker says absently. “It was hot as shit dude, you’re gonna love it. You’ve never been tied up before?”

“I don’t think so,” Wash says, feeling more ridiculous by the minute. “Wait—maybe? I think in Basic…” He shakes his head. The memory is too fuzzy.

“Don’t remember?” Tucker asks. His voice is casual, the note of sadness barely noticeable, but Wash catches it.

“Don’t remember,” he sighs.

“I think you’ll be totally into it,” Tucker says enthusiastically. “It’s like—your brain just shuts _right_ off. You fucking _need_ some of that.”

Wash can’t really argue there. He watches as Tucker swipes around to various websites, apparently intent on finding something specific. “What exactly are you looking for?”

“I don’t know—man, look at this one, this is like, fucking art right here—I think I need a video tutorial or some shit…ah, here we go!”

Tucker props the datapad up in Wash’s lap, tugs Wash’s shirt off, and spends the next ten minutes trying to perfect the knot he’s chosen.  He finally slides off the bed to stand in front of Wash. “Okay, test that. Can you get out of it?”

Wash does, twisting his wrists and flexing the muscles in his arms, but the knot holds fast. “No. It’s good.”

Tucker snaps his fingers. “Oh wait, we need one more thing…hang on…” Wash watches as he starts rifling around his room before unscrewing the metal lid to his canteen. He tucks it into Wash’s hands, then steps back. “Drop that, okay? If you want me to stop.”

Tucker must see the confusion on his face, because he tilts Wash’s chin up with his fingers and grins. “In case it’s easier than talking. Besides, I might have other plans for that hot fucking mouth of yours.”

Wash feels a powerful and unexpected heat flare beneath his skin. He realizes suddenly that has no control over whatever happens next and it’s a thrilling prospect. The control is gone, placed in Tucker's hands, and he feels equal parts arousal and, surprisingly, relief at the thought. Tucker pauses for a moment, cupping Wash's face with his hands and pressing their foreheads together. "Got you. Okay?"

"Okay," Wash whispers, and Tucker smooths his thumbs over his cheekbones before leaning down to kiss him.

For several minutes, that's all they do, but the kisses are deep and hot, full of teeth and tongue. Tucker leans into him, sliding his hands up the inside of Wash’s thighs. Wash closes his eyes as he feels Tucker’s mouth on his neck, his ear, the dip in his collarbone. Tucker’s hands slide up and down his thighs, never quite high enough, and soon Wash is pressing his hips forward each time Tucker’s hands drift back up.

Tucker palms his cock lightly through his fatigues and hums a little. “So fucking hard already,” he murmurs. His lips are right on Wash’s ear when he says it, and everything in his body sways towards Tucker as he pulls away.

Tucker undoes the button on Wash’s fatigues and tugs them off his legs, Wash lifting his hips as best he can to help. He’s left only in his boxers now—and, _ridiculously,_ his socks, but Tucker leaves those on.

Holding his gaze, Tucker kneels in front of him, running his hands up and down Wash’s thighs once more. Tucker grins as Wash spreads his legs and squirms forward a little. “Yeah, _just_ like that, Wash, spread your legs for me.” His hands come down on Wash’s thighs and squeeze firmly, and then he lowers his mouth to Wash’s cock and sucks hard. He’s left Wash’s boxer briefs on, so Tucker’s mouth is _right there_ but still too far.  Wash whines, hips rolling forward, but Tucker just moves to the base of his cock and licks a long stripe up the sides before sucking on the tip of Wash’s cock.

So close, so close, so close. “Tucker,” he groans, and moves to tangle his fingers in Tucker’s hair to tug him closer, because Tucker loves that, because he’s so close and Wash needs _more_. It takes Wash a few moments to realize, through the haze of pleasure, that he _can’t_ move his hands, that he can’t touch Tucker _at all_ —

He feels his first real wave of frustration as he tugs and remembers that he isn’t going to be able to touch Tucker’s gorgeous skin or hold onto his hair. “Fuck,” he pants, tossing his head, and Tucker says nothing, just smirks up at him and keeps mouthing away at Wash’s cock through his briefs.

Tucker stays there until the fabric is soaked through. It feels good, _so_ good, the heat of Tucker’s mouth and the drag of his teeth, but it’s not enough—

As if reading his mind, Tucker hums against the base of his cock. “Hmmm. You _can_ come you know, Wash. I never said you _couldn’t._ ”

“I _can’t_ ,” Wash groans. He thrusts desperately at Tucker’s mouth and Tucker lets him, opening wider, but Wash doesn’t get very far. “I need— _Tucker_ …”

Tucker looks up at him slyly, thumbs playing with the waistband of Wash’s briefs. “What’s the matter? Want me to take these off?”

He nuzzles his cheek against Wash’s cock and Wash ruts against him. “Yes,” he whines, as Tucker nips at the waistband.

“Yes, what?”

Wash bites his lip as Tucker rubs a thumb over the tip of his cock. “Please,” he grits out. “Tucker, _please_.”

Tucker rewards him with a long, slow stroke, his palm firm and warm against Wash’s dick, the most friction he’s gotten in a while, before standing up. He drops his forehead against Wash’s for a moment, before tilting Wash’s chin up so their eyes lock. “Get on your knees.”

His voice is low and sure, not a trace of his usual snark, and Wash feels that liquid-smoke feeling in his bones again, like they’re melting straight into the floor. He follows them down, kneeling in front of Tucker, who winds one hand in Wash’s hair to tilt his head back. Tucker lifts his other hand to Wash's mouth, inserting two fingers, and Wash sucks gladly. He moves his mouth to the heel of Tucker’s palm, dragging his teeth there, and is rewarded when Tucker moans, hips stuttering forward.

Tucker's eyes are bright when he pulls his hand away, tugging his pants down and letting his cock spring free. He wraps a hand around himself, stroking leisurely and holding Wash's gaze. Wash tries to maintain eye contact, but the way Tucker is jerking himself off inches from his face is too distracting and his eyes constantly flit downward. "Suck." He tugs Wash's head forward, breath stuttering a little as Wash takes him in. 

The heat pooling in Wash's groin pulses hotter with every gasp and moan of pleasure that he coaxes out of Tucker. He squirms a little, hips swaying forward to no avail as he tugs uselessly at the rope, but the knot doesn't budge, and Wash whines a little in the back of his throat. Being unable to touch himself is bad enough, but being unable to touch Tucker when he's moaning like that is driving him _insane._ Tucker glances down at the noise, pulling back out of Wash’s mouth. “Are—you—?”

“M’fine,” Wash gasps. “M’fine—swear—just— _God,_ Tucker—”

Tucker grins, tugging Wash’s mouth back on him once more. Wash swirls his tongue around the head of Tucker’s dick, just the way he likes; he sucks Tucker into the back of his throat and hums there, and Tucker moans and gasps and pulls at his hair as he comes.

Wash swallows every drop, licking Tucker clean, and Tucker falls heavily to his knees in front of him. He tips Wash’s head back again and kisses him fiercely, hands running down Wash’s arms to close over the rope. “That was _so_ fucking hot,” he mutters into Wash’s mouth. “Here, sit down, dude. Gonna rock your fucking world.”

Wash does, sitting back hastily on the floor and leaning his back against the bed. Tucker spreads Wash’s legs apart, shimmies down until he’s flat on his stomach, and pulls Wash’s underwear off. With an obscene smacking sound, he takes Wash’s cock in his mouth and sucks him right into the back of his throat.

Wash lets out a noise that sounds more like a sob than a moan, pleasure arcing through him and setting his nerves on fire. Tucker tugs his hips forward even closer, his head bobbing enthusiastically. He presses hard against the rope and hard against Tucker’s hands but neither give—they hold him fast, they hold him still, Tucker’s mouth hot on his cock, and when he comes, he feels like he’s floating.

It takes him several moments after to realize that Tucker’s leaning over him, undoing the rope. Wash groans as the rope pulls free, the muscles in his arms singing in relief. Tucker’s hands are strong and sure on his shoulders, rubbing them gently, sweeping down his arms, turning his wrists.

“Thank you,” he mutters, and then keeps muttering it. Tucker laughs, dropping kiss to one of his shoulders before rummaging around in his locker.

“Drink this,” he says, and Wash blinks blearily up at him. Tucker’s holding a water bottle out expectantly. “C’mon, sit up a little.”

“M’fine,” Wash insists, because really, he’s so comfortable here, leaning against the bed, that he doesn’t think he’s ever going to move again, but Tucker’s gently pulling him forward and pressing the water bottle into his hands.

He drinks half the bottle and lets Tucker tug him back onto the bed, flopping next to him. Tucker looks so delighted that Wash laughs. “You proud of yourself?”

“Fuck yeah I am,” Tucker says. He’s practically preening. “You’re like, fucking _melting_ right now. Did you know you needed that? Like, _really_ needed that?”

“No,” Wash says. “Not like that. That was…”

He breathes in deep, rolling to kiss Tucker. “Thanks,” he says again, and drops his head right there on Tucker’s chest, because the closeness feels good, because it makes Tucker feels good, because he can have this.

He can let himself have this.


	20. Chapter 20

If Tucker is being honest with himself—truly, unflinchingly honest—he has to admit that he spends most of his time these days on cloud nine.

He knows he shouldn’t, really. The planet is _fucked_. The war is fucked. There are mercs out for their blood and probably also his head on a stick. People are injured. People are dying. Even if this war ended tomorrow, putting this planet back together was going to take _years._

Yet shit is _always_ fucked.

It’s been Tucker’s baseline for so many years now that he doesn’t even know what he would _do_ with some normalcy. There’d been a moment, before the _Hand of Merope_ had crashed, that it looked like they might actually get a bit of that, and Tucker would be lying if he said the prospect hadn’t terrified him. But, nope. Back to the normal bullshit that has been his life since entering the military.

So—cloud nine. He gets regular updates on his kid and all of them are good. He’s finally making real headway in his knife and hand-to-hand training, and he’d gotten to watch Wash thoroughly hand Felix’s ass to him on their most recent mission. He’s got food and a bunch of idiots to sit around in the mess hall and eat it with. He’s got a bed, and someone to fuck and cuddle with in it.

He’s got Wash.

 _Ali was right,_ Tucker thinks absently, as he pulls up the drawing of him staring at Wash. He can feel it, feel the stupid, moony expression that his face seems to get stuck in every time Wash is around. Tucker feels like he’s single-handedly saved the planet and won the war every time he gets Wash to laugh or smile or come or sleep. Wash is happy, too. Not _always_ —not completely—but he smiles more these days than Tucker has ever seen before, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t do everything in his power to keep seeing that smile.

A knock on the door has him closing the drawing and looking up eagerly from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor. “Yeah?”

Donut pushes the door open, peeking his head in. “You called?”

“Yeah, dude.” Tucker gestures for Donut to come in and close the door. “I’m in _way_ over my head here. I can _not_ figure this shit out for the life of me.”

“Figure what… _oh!_ ” Donut’s eyes flit between the datapad and the rope that Tucker is furiously trying to unknot. “Well, doesn’t _this_ look fun!”

“That’s the idea,” Tucker grumps, as he somehow manages to get the rope tangled up even further. “Ahh, goddammit!”

“Give it here.” Donut takes a seat across form him, tugging the rope out of Tucker’s hands. “ _Soooo,_ you’re trying to do…. what, exactly?”

“I’m trying to _practice_ ,” Tucker says with a sigh, flopping on his stomach and swiping absently through the datapad. When Donut merely raises an eyebrow, Tucker gives him a look. “Practice making _knots_ , Donut. _Sex_ knots. Jesus, what does it look like I’m doing?”

“It looks like you’re doing your best to destroy this beautiful piece of rope,” Donut says in disapproval as he unravels Tucker’s mess. “I meant, why did you call me in here, silly?”

“Because I need your _help_ ,” Tucker says desperately. “You should’ve seen me trying to tie Wash up. It took me like, twenty minutes to figure out a single knot. I mean, talk about amateur hour! Unacceptable, dude. _Unacceptable_. I need my shit to be on _point_.”

“And I was the first person you thought to ask?”

Tucker huffs. “Oh, _yeah_ , let me just go ask Grif. Hey, Grif? Can you help me figure out some sweet _bondage_ techniques? Or Sarge? Or—fucking—I don’t know, _Carolina?_ ”

Donut beams at him. “Tucker, I’m—I’m just _honored_ that you trusted me enough to come to me with this! I’d be _happy_ to help!”

“Oh, good,” Tucker says gratefully. “So, you know how to do this shit, then?”

“ _Do_ I!” Donut undoes the rope with a flourish, straightening it out between his hands. “Do I ever!”

“Fucking fantastic.” Tucker holds out his wrists expectantly. “Show me the goods.”

Donut eyes him, suddenly stern. “You and Wash _have_ talked about this, right?”

Tucker blinks. “What, using rope? Are you serious? You think I would just try to tie _Wash_ up without talking about it first? Come on, give me a little credit.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Donut amends. “It’s just—it’s Wash."

“Yeah, I _know_. That’s why I’m trying to do this shit _right_.”

Donut’s eyes go downright misty. “Oh, _Tucker_. You’re _sooo_ in love.”

“Oh my God,” Tucker groans. “Look, either show me how to make some good sex knots or I’ll have to ask Grif about this after all.”

“Fine, _fine_ …” Donut sits up a little straighter, clearly his throat dramatically. “Okay. _So_. Speaking purely technique-wise—since I’m assuming you two have already talked about safe words and—”

“Yup. Got that shit on lock.”

“ _Then_ , the first knot I’m going to show you is called a single-column tie…”

It takes Tucker the better part of two hours to get the hang of the knots that Donut shows him, but after the never-ending disaster that was his knife evasion lessons, Tucker isn’t complaining. If there’s one thing this goddamn war has taught him, it’s a bit of patience. He throws himself into the lesson, rolling his eyes only minimally when Donut says things like, _“Now Tucker, it’s important to note that the actual tying of the rope should be just as erotic as the sexual acts themselves.”_

“I’m so impressed that you’re not just using handcuffs,” Donut gushes as Tucker practices looping Donut’s hands behind his back for the third time. “Not that there’s anything _wrong_ with that, but this is _so_ much more intimate, if you ask me.”

“Eh, _I’m_ cool with handcuffs, but I figure they probably freak Wash out, ya know? Prison, and all that.”

“Of course,” Donut says solemnly. “He didn’t like that one _bit_ when we were in that Fed prison! Neither did I, come to that.”

They into a comfortable silence, and Tucker feels a sudden burst of affection for Donut. “Thanks,” he says, clapping Donut somewhat awkwardly on the shoulder. “For helping me figure this out.”

“No problem!” Donut says cheerfully. “That’s what friends do.”

The wave of guilt that crashes over him is just as sudden as the affection, but far more unexpected. Donut’s right. This _is_ what friends do—this is, in fact, above and beyond what friends do, because Donut’s a pretty good fucking friend, and Tucker…

“Do you want to go find Doc?”

Donut pauses, craning his neck around to look at Tucker. “I’m sorry?”

“Do you…” Tucker clears his throat, resuming tying the knot and trying to sound casual. “Do you want to look for Doc? I’ll help you.”

“Oh, my goodness!” To Tucker’s horror, Donut sounds on the edge of tears. “That’s so _nice_ of you—”

“—I should’ve asked you sooner—”

“—but, Wash and I have already looked for him.”

“—so that’s my bad—wait, _what?_ ”

“Mmhm,” Donut says, cheerful as ever. “I mean, we didn’t get a chance to peek into _every_ nook and cranny of the planet, but we did spend a good few days looking.”

Tucker rifles through his memories, trying to recall if there was a time when both Wash and Donut were missing for several days, and comes up blank. “When was this?”

“While we were with the Feds, of course!”

Tucker pauses in the act of unlooping his most recent knot. “Wait, what? They _let_ you? _Locus_ let you and Wash go off and fuck around for several days so you could look for your boyfriend?”

“Don’t be _silly,_ ” Donut says with a tittering laugh. “Wash and I busted out!”

With each new piece of information, Tucker finds himself even more baffled. He finishes unknotting the rope from Donut’s wrists and comes to sit in front of him. “Hold up. You guys did _what?_ ”

“We made a break for it! Wash and I were _bonding,_ you know, as men are wont to do when crammed together in tight spaces, and we were talking about Doc, and I got really really sad, and Wash said, well, let’s go find him!”

Donut pauses for maximum dramatic effect before continuing. “ _Sooo,_ we busted out. Sarge and Lopez covered for us while we escaped under _cover of night_. We spent a few days looking for Doc—and for _all_ you guys, of course! We thought you might be together, actually— but Locus caught up with us eventually.”

Tucker stares at him, flabbergasted. “How the hell did you talk your way out of _that_ one?”

“Wellllll, there was a lot more fighting than there was talking, at first, but eventually we managed to convince them that we were out gathering intel.” Donut pauses thoughtfully. “I’m not sure that they bought it, though.”

“You think?” Tucker says sarcastically. “ _Jesus,_ Donut. You’re lucky you weren’t both killed!”

Donut scoffs. “Don’t you lecture me, Lavernius Tucker! If memory serves me right, _you_ four were the ones who showed up at the Fed’s base!”

“That was _different_ —”

“Was not!”

“Was too!”

“How?”

“It…because it…we….” Tucker narrows his eyes. “It just was, okay?”

“The point _is_ ,” Donut continues, “we didn’t find Doc. Or you guys, obviously. Or much of _anything_. But it was nice of Wash, _real_ nice, to come with me.”

“Yeah,” Tucker says, his annoyance fading back into guilt. “It was. I’m….I’m sorry, man. I should’ve like, asked you about this sooner.”

“No need to apologize!” Donut says, cheerful as ever. “I know you would’ve gone with me if I’d asked.”

“I would have,” Tucker says quickly. “I swear.”

Donut smiles at him, then picks up the rope. “Now, come on! Do that knot again and this time, make the experience more _erotic_. You’re tying up your lover, not wrestling a crocodile into submission.”

Tucker rolls his eyes, but snatches the rope. “ _Fine._ Watch the master at work.” He pauses. “And, uh. Thanks again. Look, if you ever need sex tips, I could like, show you some of my best blowjob techniques on a banana or something—”

Donut laughs, a bright, tinkling sound. “Tucker, _please_. Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?”

* * *

 

Ever since his breakthrough in knife work with Wash, Tucker has been improving in his training by leaps and bounds. He still doesn’t like seeing that bright chalk marking his skin, and he sometimes finds himself flinching, but he no longer freezes up. His knives find the target more often than not these days, and he feels like a mega-badass each time he hears that satisfying _thunk_ of the blade finding its mark. Even his hand-to-hand skills are getting better. He still can’t best Wash or Carolina, but he comes out on top in his matches with almost everyone else. Training, in short, is going great, save for one key area:

They _still_ haven’t found anyone on this goddamn planet who knows how to use a sword.

“ _No,_ Tucker,” Carolina says without even looking up when he approaches her in the mess hall one day. “I still haven’t found a swordsman. I will _tell you_ when I do.”

“Ugh!” Tucker throws himself into the seat across from her. “I mean, is there even anyone you _haven’t_ asked at this point?”

Carolina grimaces. “Not really.”

“I can’t believe it,” Tucker grumbles. “I can’t believe not a single person on this planet knows how to use a sword!”

“Really?” Epsilon quips, popping up on top of her helmet. “You can’t believe a single person on this planet doesn’t know how to use an ancient Sangheilli laser sword?”

Tucker eyes him. “Uh, considering that this place is fucking littered with ancient artifacts? _Yeah_ , dude. I confess myself a little shocked.”

Epsilon fidgets as if he’s going to fire back, but hesitates. Things haven’t been the same between them since he’d shown Tucker his memories of Wash, and every time Tucker opens his mouth to make a quip, the words stick in his throat. _You weren’t in the canyon,_ he’d screamed, and ever since, he couldn’t forget the truth of his words. Epsilon _hadn’t_ been in the canyon, and Tucker isn’t sure he knows him at all.

He shifts his gaze back to Carolina. “So, what? Should I just try to teach myself then?”

“No.” Carolina finishes her last spoonful of oatmeal before setting the spoon down carefully. “ _I’m_ going to teach you.”

Tucker eyes her, alarmed. “As in, you’re giving me one on one lessons?”

“Well, seeing as how no one _else_ in this army insists on carrying a sword into battle—”

“Okay, but just to warn you, I’m an annoying student, like really annoying—”

“Wash has filled me in on the type of student you are. I think I can handle it.”

Tucker glances between her and Epsilon, resigned. “Alright, _alright._ So, how we doing this?”

Carolina pushes herself away from the table. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

She seals her helmet back over her head, motioning at Tucker to follow her.

 _Back to square one,_ Tucker thinks dully. He scoops his dreads into his own helmet and falls in line behind her.

They enter the training room which, Tucker notes, isn’t empty. “Uh, Carolina, I think this one is taken,” he says, catching her elbow and pulling her to a stop.

She glances around. “What? No it’s not. There’s plenty of space.”

“But there are already people in here.”

“They’re just lifting weights, Tucker. The floor is clear.”

“Yeah, but…”

“But _what?_ ”

Tucker hesitates, trying to make his voice sound offhand and casual when he says, “Wash and I are always alone when we work with the knives.”

“How _convenient,_ ” Epsilon mutters sourly, and Tucker swings to glare at him.

“Okay, _listen,_ if you’re gonna—”

“Don’t start,” Carolina says wearily. “Tucker, it’s _fine_. Come over here.”

She leads him over to the edge of the wide, open space meant for in-armor sparring, and picks up something sitting at the edge of the space. As they get closer, Tucker can see there are two wooden swords, and hefts the one in his hand as she passes it over to him. “Weighs the same as mine,” he says in surprise. “How did you do that?”

“Sarge helped me make them,” she says, and Tucker blinks.

“Man, I thought all he knew how to do was crazy mechanical shit.”

“You and me both,” she says with a laugh, then straightens. “Now. I haven’t used a sword like this before, but I can show you a thing or two about footwork.”

“I like the sound of _that._ ”

Epsilon sighs loudly. “That one doesn’t even make sense, Tucker.”

“Moving on,” Carolina says testily. She shoots Epsilon a look, and Tucker waits as something passes between them. With a huff, Epsilon winks away. “Let’s start by seeing what you can do.”

Tucker glances subtly around the rest of the room, but no one seems to be paying them all that much attention. None of the other sim troopers are here, although Tucker does spot Ali, Patil, and several of the rebels milling about. He sighs and looks back at Carolina. “So, do I just try to attack you, or…?”

“Let’s start with just seeing how you move. Show me a kata.”

“A what?”

“You…don’t know what a kata is?”

Tucker rolls his head around in an exaggerated circle. “Of course I know what a fucking kata is! What I _don’t_ know is _when_ you think I would’ve learned one for the sword that _no one knows how to use!_ ”

“Alright, alright,” Carolina says. “Just relax.”

“I _am_ relaxed! I’m totally and completely relaxed!”

Carolina twirls the sword in her hand thoughtfully. “I’ll just make a kata up for you to practice, then.”

Tucker brightens. “Okay, _great._ You spend some time doing that, and we’ll try this again….later…”

He trails off as Carolina starts inventing a kata on the spot, twirling and slicing and stabbing and looking as if she’s spent her whole life with that wooden sword in her hand. Jesus _fucking_ Christ. He’d always had a healthy respect for Carolina’s fighting prowess, but Tucker suddenly can’t recall ever seeing her move quite like this, without an opponent.

Tucker had long thought katas were stupid—what was the point in training without an opponent? —  but watching Carolina, he can visualize exactly what’s supposed to be happening. By the time she finishes five minutes later, the rest of the training room isn’t even pretending not to stare.

“That was really pretty,” Tucker blurts when she turns to face him.

He can’t see her face, but the way her head jerks back infinitesimally telegraphs her surprise. “It—what?”

“It was, just…” Tucker shrugs. “It was like you put on a one-woman play. That was cool. Can you show me that?”

She does. To his surprise, Tucker finds himself falling into the movements easily. It feels comfortable, instinctual even, and when he expresses this sentiment to Carolina, she shrugs easily. “I’m not surprised.”

“Oh, _really?_ Whatever happened to ‘ _Tucker, you don’t know how to use that sword!_ ’”

“You _don’t,_ ” she says, “in the sense that you’ve never had proper training, but you’re clearly comfortable with the weapon. You move well, with it in your hands. Come on, do this kata with me.”

They run through the movements together, side by side, and although Tucker is pretty sure he doesn’t look half as cool as Carolina, he still feels like a straight badass moving in unison with her.

“Good,” she says in approval once they’ve finished. “Very good. I want you to run through that every morning. Focus on keeping your footwork nice and tight—it’s where all of your movement stems from. Now, let’s try to put some of it together.”

“We gonna spar?”

“Exactly.” Carolina angles the sword across her body and gestures with her free hand. “Try to attack me.”

Just as he starts to move, Tucker catches a glimpse of Wash across the room, sitting on one of the benches with his helmet down between his feet. Tucker hadn’t even noticed his arrival. His swing at Carolina goes wide and she sidesteps it easily, whacking him on the back of the head with her own sword.

“Ouch! What the _fuck!_ ”

Carolina tilts her head at him, exasperated. “What the _hell_ was that mess?”

Tucker tries and fails not to glance over at Wash again, but Carolina tracks his gaze. “Tucker, _focus_. Use the movements we just went over.”

“I _am_ focused,” he grumps, and comes at her again. It’s long, hard work, and if it were a real sword fight Tucker would’ve died about a billion times, but at the end of the hour he has the sense of actually having accomplished something. Until recently, he’d left his knife-training sessions feeling jittery and exhausted. He’s exhausted now, too, but it’s a different kind of exhaustion, the kind that comes at the end of a job well done. No one is even paying him attention anymore: Wash had wrangled the watching Feds and News into an impromptu training session and is in full-blown lecture mode across the room.

Carolina takes a seat on one of the benches and removes her helmet, the short strands of her hair sticking to her forehead. She tosses a canteen at him and he joins her, removing his helmet as well. “Same time tomorrow?”

Tucker sighs. “Yeah, I guess. Thanks for showing me some stuff.”

She shrugs, and they settle into a comfortable silence until Tucker catches her looking at him. “So. You and Wash.”

Her expression is unreadable, and Tucker sets his canteen down hard. “ _Yeah_ , me and Wash. Look, if you’re going to start lecturing me and like, threaten me with death and dismemberment if I hurt Wash or something—”

“I—” Carolina pauses, exasperated. “I wasn’t going to _lecture_ you, Tucker.”

“Oh, really? Then what were you going to do?”

“I was _going_ ,” Carolina says calmly, “to ask if you knew what you were doing with that rope.”

Tucker doesn’t quite do a spit-take, but it’s a near thing. He shoots a glance across the room, but Wash and the other soldiers are distracted by something that Palomo just did. “I— _what_ did you just say?”

“You heard me,” Carolina says. There is a definite twinkle in her eyes that’s at odds with the serious tone of her voice, and Tucker has no idea if she’s fucking with him or not.

“You— _yes,_ I know what I’m doing with it. Got me some lessons on knots and shit.”

“Hmm. From who?”

“Donut.”

Carolina lifts an eyebrow. “And does _Donut_ know what he’s doing?”

“He seemed to?” Tucker rolls his eyes. “Relax, I’m being careful.”

“You make him happy,” Carolina says abruptly, glancing across the room. “It’s nice to see that.”

“Yeah,” Tucker says, then looks at her a little more closely. “Are, uh. Are you happy?”

She stares at him. “What?”

Tucker shrugs, suddenly uncomfortable. Apparently he’s having heart to hearts with everyone today. Christ, he’s turning into such a sap. “I mean. You know, since Freelancer fucked up everyone’s shit and now we’re all on this random ass planet and…I don’t know, just—are you happy?”

Carolina leans her head back against the wall, thinking. “Sometimes,” she says finally. “Sometimes I’m… _better._ Better than I was.”

Tucker grins at her. “Yeah? You got someone you’re using rope on?”

Instead of brushing him off like he was expecting, Carolina’s mouth turns up in a smirk. “Maybe.”

“Wait, _really?_ Who? Come on, you have to tell me—”

“I think _not_ ,” Carolina says. “I don’t need any betting pools going around about me.”

“Let go of your dignity, Carolina,” Tucker says with a grin. “It’s much more fun that way.”

She winks at him then, actually fucking _winks._ “Subtlety can be fun too, you know.”

“Listen,” Tucker says suddenly. “If you ever want to like, grab a drink or something—there’s a great bar not that far from here. We can exchange _techniques_ and shit—”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Carolina says with a smile. “The drinks part, not the…techniques part.”

“Good,” Tucker says, then gives her a little nudge. “We gotta stick together, yeah? Team aqua and all that shit.”

“Yeah,” Carolina says, and after a pause, she gives him a nudge right back.

* * *

 

Tucker is waylaid outside the mess hall that night by Ali, who approaches him and says without preamble, “You two are fucking ridiculous.”

Tucker stares at him. “Huh?”

“Okay, so….” Ali clicks through on his datapad and shoves it at Tucker. “ _This_ is how Agent Washington stares at _you._ ”

Tucker sighs loudly, rolling his head up at the ceiling. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, will you give it a rest with….”

Tucker trails off as he snatches the datapad and gets a good look at the drawing—which, as usual, looks like it should be hanging in a fucking museum, not scrawled on a datapad where hardly anyone will ever see it. It’s from this afternoon, of Wash in the training room, helmet off and resting on the ground between his feet. He’s leaning forward, elbows propped up on his knees and head tilted slightly. And his _face_ …

“He doesn’t look at me like that,” Tucker says, though his tone comes out more stunned than the dismissive lilt he was going for. “Dude. _Come_ on. Nobody looks at _anybody_ like that.”

Ali snorts. “Uh, he was _definitely_ staring at you like that the _whole_ time you were waving that sword around earlier. Are you two seriously _blind?_ ”

Tucker opens his mouth to reply, but falters as he stares at the drawing once more. Wash’s jaw is slightly clenched, half of his mouth turned up in a smile, eyes soft and reverent, looking at Tucker like he’s brighter than the sun.

“Why do you like to draw us, anyway?” Tucker says, sounding more flustered than he wants to. “I mean, like. What’s the _appeal?_ ”

Ali rolls his head, exasperated. “I don’t exclusively draw you two, you _are_ aware of that, right? I just get the most _requests_ for you guys.”

He takes his datapad back and starts swiping through the drawings. There’s Grif napping in the armory. Dr. Grey on her tip-toes leaning up to kiss Sarge’s helmet. Caboose carrying two cadets off the battlefield. Carolina with her hand hovering just over Kimball’s shoulder. Patil crushing a watermelon between his hands. There’s the Feds, the News, the towering alien spires.

“These are amazing,” Tucker says, when he can find his words again. “You’re amazing. Dude, seriously. You gotta like, _show_ these to people. Important people. Important _art_ people. These are some iconic war images right here. Get that shit on the news or something.”

“I just…draw what I see.” Ali shrugs and taps his head. “Gets it out of here, ya know?” He scrolls back to the image of Wash and sends it to Tucker with a few swipes. “He fucking _loves_ you, man.”

“Yeah yeah—wait, did you say you get _requests?_ ”

With a clap to Tucker’s shoulder, Ali walks away, whistling as he goes and leaving Tucker staring slightly dumbfounded at his retreating back. Giving himself a little shake, he continues onward towards his room. He’s no sooner opening the door when none other than Wash materializes at his shoulder.

“Oh, hey,” Tucker says, motioning Wash into the room and pulling the door shut behind them. “Where were you at dinner?”

“Meeting,” Wash says distractedly, popping the seals on his helmet and setting it on the floor. “With Kimball.”

“About the mission next week?” Tucker takes his own helmet off as well. “The big one?”

He looks at Wash’s face as he says it, trying to catch a glimpse of that soft expression he’d seen in Ali’s drawing. Wash’s face doesn’t look very soft right now. On the contrary, his eyes are dark and liquid, and he’s looking at Tucker like—

Wash practically lunges for him, and Tucker finds himself pressed back against the wall with Wash’s hands fumbling at his armor. Tucker responds enthusiastically to the kiss, his own hands immediately joining in to tear at the clasps of Wash’s own armor. “Hello to you too,” he gasps into the kiss.

Wash pulls back to look at him, heaving both of their chest plates off and dumping them on the floor. “You looked really good with that sword,” he says, and he doesn’t even sound flirty or coy—he sounds dead ass serious and Tucker’s dick jumps straight to attention at the words.

“Yeah? You liked watching me—ohhhhhhhmy _god_ …”

Wash twists a hand in Tucker’s hair and tugs his head back, his teeth dragging across the base of Tucker’s throat and Tucker stops talking in favor of making a whole host of other noises. He paws at their armor again, but Wash catches his hand. “I’ve got it,” he says, voice low and wanting, and Tucker watches through heavily-lidded eyes as Wash divests them of their armor in record time.

He thumbs the release on the back of Wash’s Kevlar suit and starts tugging it off his shoulders, exposing those glorious, chiseled arms that have been the subject of so many of Tucker’s fantasies. He stops trying to yank Wash’s suit off in favor of running his hands all over Wash’s arms and chest, fingers digging into the cuts of muscle in his shoulders, his forearms, his biceps. A noise of protests escapes him as Wash pulls away, but it’s only to yank Tucker’s own suit off. “Step out of it,” he says, low in Tucker’s ear, and Tucker immediately hops out of his suit, kicking it off to the side. Wash yanks his own suit off and presses Tucker back into the wall. He grinds their hips together, and Tucker groans at the contact. “Where’s the lube?”

“ _Jesus,_ Wash,” Tucker gasps as Wash leans his head down and swirls his tongue around one of Tucker’s nipples. “It’s—it’s—on my nightstand…”

He blinks, dazed, as Wash breaks away. “Stay there,” Wash says when he moves to follow.

Tucker keeps his back pressed into the wall, watching as Wash divests himself of his under clothing and paws around for the lube and condoms. He whips his own boxers off as well, his face splitting into a grin as Wash returns, pressing Tucker back into the wall with a kiss.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Tucker says, giddy, as Wash pops open the lube and squeezes some out onto his fingers. “You’re gonna fuck me against the wall, aren’t you?”

Wash pauses and looks at him, the barest hint of uncertainty flickering in his eyes before he says. “I might. If you ask nicely.”

“Yes _please_ ,” Tucker says immediately, because begging isn’t a big deal for him in the way that it is for Wash and how the _fuck_ is he supposed to resist that voice, anyway? “ _Please_ fuck me against this wall. Please? Please Wash? What do you want me to do? Tell me and I’ll do it, I swear—”

The rest of his words leave him as Wash wraps one hand around his dick and reaches the other around to Tucker’s ass, one finger probing at his entrance and holy _fuck_ Tucker doesn’t even know which way he wants to move his hips. Wash ducks his head, his teeth fastening around Tucker’s earlobe and tugging gently. “So gorgeous,” he mutters into Tucker’s ear, and Tucker feels his whole face heat up at those words. Good God, he’s actually _fucking blushing_. He’s had the dirtiest shit whispered into his ear during sex over the years and he hasn’t blushed once. But something about the way Wash breathes it into his ear, his voice soft and gentle and like, full of _wonder_ —it steals all the breath from Tucker’s lungs.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” he means to say, but it comes out as _“hnngh”_ instead and then Tucker just gives up on words and thinking because Wash adds another finger and he has the longest fingers in _the world_ and Tucker doesn’t know what the fuck his other hand is doing to Tucker’s dick but it feels so good that it’s probably illegal—

He tries to reciprocate in some way, to get his own hand around Wash’s cock or kiss his neck or something, but he can’t seem to stop shaking and his own hands aren’t listening. Wash has initiated sex before—a bit hesitantly, it was true—but not like _this._ There’s a confidence and a heat to his movements that makes it hard to think hard to _breathe—_

“Wash,” he groans, as Wash gets another finger in there and starts thrusting methodically. “Holy fucking _shit_ —fuck me, fuck me, please, I want you so fucking bad—”

Wash kisses him hard, before pulling away and snatching up the condoms. Tucker wraps a fist around his own dick as Wash tears open the wrapper and starts jerking himself off—he’s too wound up to wait—but Wash catches his wrist and pins it to his own chest. “Let me.”

“Oh, fuck me,” Tucker says, as Wash rolls the condom onto his own cock with his free hand. “Oh my God, this is so hot, like _seriously_ it’s so hot—”

He gasps as Wash leans back into him, scooping his arms under Tucker’s legs and lifting him straight up into the air. Tucker clutches hard at his shoulders and wraps his legs against Wash’s waist as Wash presses him tight to the wall. “See, I knew you had good arms for wall sex,” Tucker babbles, still in that same giddy tone. He can feel Wash’s cock right against his ass and he squirms, trying to urge Wash’s dick inside of him. Wash holds him fast, nipping at Tucker’s neck.

“Wash,” he whines. He thrusts his own cock against Wash’s abs. “Wash, fuck me, fuck me, _please_ fuck me, please…”

Wash shifts his hands on Tucker’s legs, lines himself up, and lowers Tucker down onto his cock, inch by inch. He keeps going until his dick is fully buried in Tucker’s ass and stays there for a moment, both of them panting into each other’s mouths, before lifting Tucker back off of him again, and back down _again_ , and—

Tucker doesn’t have much leverage to thrust back at this angle, so he just holds tight to Wash’s shoulders as Wash uses those glorious arms to lever Tucker up and down at _the world’s slowest pace_. “Holy shit ho— _ly_ shit Wash what the fuck oh my god oh my god that’s good that’s _so good I’m gonna die I’m gonna die it’s good it’s good it’s good…_ ”

“Do you want more?” Wash breathes into his ear and yep, Tucker’s going to lose it, he is absolutely, one-hundred-percent going to melt into a puddle right here on the fucking floor.

“Yes, please, please, more, go harder _go harder_ holy fuck—”

Wash easily readjusts his grip and thrusts up into Tucker so hard that Tucker very nearly screams. He wraps his fingers in Wash’s hair and fastens his legs even tighter around Wash’s hips and buries his face in the crook of Wash’s neck and moans and shakes and begs and falls to pieces right then and there. Wash slides one hand in between their bodies and cups Tucker’s dick against his stomach and touches his forehead to Tucker’s and it’s so intimate and at odds with the relentless way that Wash is pounding into him and Tucker comes hard between their bodies with a yell.

“Keep going,” he groans weakly, after his orgasm peaks and he floats back down to Earth. “Wash—keep going—keep fucking me, I want you to come like this, just like this—”

He does. Tucker can feel Wash’s whole body tense before releasing with a shudder. His hands tighten on Tucker’s hips, the air leaving him in a gasp, his hips slowing down minutely until they’re both pressed up against the wall, breathing heavily, Wash still hard inside of him.

Wash pulls out slowly, setting Tucker down, his hands lingering until he’s sure that Tucker’s steady on his feet. Tucker stumbles over to his locker, wipes off his chest with a towel, and tosses it to Wash. He snags a fresh pillowcase, wearily tugs it onto his pillow, and flops down on his stomach with a groan. “Oh my God. I’m dead. I’m never moving again.”

He feels the mattress dip as Wash sits next to him, running both hands up and down Tucker’s back a few times. Tucker sighs happily as those magical hands move to his shoulders and circle there gently. “So that was okay?”

Tucker rolls over onto his back, looking at Wash incredulously. “Dude. I’m pretty sure the entire army heard me fucking screaming. Where did that even _come_ from?”

Wash grins, laying down next to Tucker. There’s another one of those uncertain flickers in his eyes as he says, “I just thought you might like it, if I…”

“Had your goddamn way with me against the wall? I _totally_ did,” Tucker says enthusiastically. “That was _so_ hot. I can’t believe you just held me up there the _whole time_.”

“That’s what happens when you train at your full potential,” Wash teases, and then he touches Tucker’s face in that way he does, all reverent and soft. “I wanted to make you feel good.”

“Mission accomplished,” Tucker says. “You always make me feel good, like holllllly shit. And—don’t lie—my sword training totally turned you on.”

“ _And_ your sword training totally turned me on,” Wash allows. “I—like watching you…move.”

“You like _watching me move?_ ”

Wash shrugs, his face easy and relaxed. “You move nice.”

“You’re such a dork,” Tucker says, leaning over to kiss him anyway. “A major dork.”

They fall into a comfortable silence for a while, Wash’s fingers trailing up and down Tucker’s arm, before something occurs to Tucker. “Oh! So—tell me about you and Donut busting dramatically out of the Fed compound to come look for all of us.”

Wash looks at him. “Donut told you about that?”

“Obviously.” Tucker gestures. “So, go on. I wanna hear the story.”

“It wasn’t a dramatic breakout,” Wash says shiftily.

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I don’t believe _that_ for a second.”

“It wasn’t! We just…snuck out one night. Sarge covered for us for almost a full day before they realized what happened.” Wash sighs. “We didn’t even know where we were going, but…we looked for Doc, and for all of you and…well, we found nothing.”

“That was cool of you,” Tucker says. “To try to find Doc. I should’ve offered that.”

“I was trying to look for _all_ of you,” Wash reminds him. “Besides, Doc’s my friend, too. He was—he forgave me, when I didn’t deserve it. You all did—”

Wash stops suddenly, his eyebrows furrowing. “It’s not up to me to dictate other people’s forgiveness,” he says, almost absently.

“Fucking _preach_ ,” Tucker says, in approval and surprise. “Who told you that?”

Wash blinks, flushing. “I…I’ve been talking to Dr. Grey, a bit.”

“Yeah?” Tucker props himself up on one elbow, giving Wash’s shoulder a little push. “Good for you, man. Is it helping?”

“Yes,” Wash says slowly. “I think…it might be.” He looks up at Tucker, blue eyes determined. “I want to be….I want to get better. I think I might be able to. _Maybe_.”

Tucker feels his chest swell at those words, at Wash’s open honesty, at the way he’d just picked Tucker up and fucked him against the wall without once asking, _are you sure?_ He thinks he should say something to recognize the gravity of the moment, but the words that flit across his mind are too high, much too high.

He scoops his words off the ground instead.

“You deserve it.”

Wash smiles at him, and Tucker sees it, then, sees what Ali had sketched so carefully: the tight jaw, the soft eyes, full of wonder and pride and—

He tugs Tucker’s face down to his own, their lips sliding together. They kiss, and kiss, and kiss, mouths moving slow and soft, long and languid, like the sea at low tide, before the waves come crashing in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you believe we are officially halfway through this fic?! I SURE CAN'T
> 
> thank you to everyone who is along for the ride that is this story. parts of this fic are going to get a bit intense sooner rather than later, so just make sure you are reading the tags, don't hesitate to [reach out](http://littlefists.tumblr.com/) if you have questions about any of them and- trust me. for just a little bit longer, _trust me._ <3


	21. Chapter 21

The small, pained noise that wakes him seems louder than a gunshot.

Wash hears the noise again, followed by soft, feather-light touches to his arms, his stomach, his hair. He snaps his eyes open to the feel of Tucker’s hands patting nervously up and down his body. “Wash,” he whimpers dazedly, in that same high-pitched voice. “Wash, you’re bleeding, you’re _bleeding_.”

Adrenaline pumps through his system and Wash bolts upright in bed, fumbling for the switch on the wall. Light floods his tiny room, illuminating Tucker’s wide, terrified eyes. His hands continue to fumble with Wash’s shirt and Wash yanks it over his head, running his hands down his body as well. Why would he be _bleeding?_ He’s fine—he’s here with Tucker and he’s _fine_ and besides, there’s no pain—he runs a palm over his implants, half-expecting it to come away bloody, but there’s nothing—

Tucker’s breathing is ragged, and Wash realizes belatedly that every inch of him is shaking. Understanding finally hits him, and he catches Tucker’s wrists as Tucker runs his fingers over Wash’s stomach yet again. “Tucker.”

“You’re bleeding,” Tucker repeats. “We have to—have to get help—I’m out of biofoam and—”

“ _Tucker_.” Wash lets go of one of Tucker’s wrists to catch hold of his chin and direct Tucker’s eyes to his own. “It was just a dream.”

Tucker shakes his head. “It—I _saw_ you—”

“Look at me.” Wash slides his hand around to the back of Tucker’s head. “I’m okay. See? No blood.”

Tucker _looks_ at him then, gaze sharpening, eyebrows slanting down as he runs a hand over Wash’s chest. “No blood.”

“That’s right. We’re both okay. It was just a dream.”

Tucker sucks in a deep, shuddering breath, and Wash watches him closely for signs of an on-coming panic attack—he’s good for _that_ , at least—but Tucker only tugs his wrist back and scrubs his hands over his face. “ _Fuck_.”

Wash waits a few moments before asking, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Tucker laughs bitterly into his hands. “What’s to talk about? I saw you…I saw you…”

He breaks off and Wash lets the silence sit, busying himself with unscrewing the lid off one of Tucker’s canteens to give him a minute. When he nudges it at Tucker’s hand, Tucker takes it, chugging the water until he drains half the canteen. “Fuck,” he says again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Jesus _fuck_.”

Wash takes the canteen away and reaches for him, but Tucker puts a hand on his chest. “Don’t go.”

He frowns, catching Tucker’s hand. “I’m not going anywhere, Tucker.”

It wasn’t his intent, but it gets an eye roll and a smile out of Tucker. “That’s not what I _meant,_ you _drama queen_. I meant like, you know…” Tucker shifts. “Don’t go.”

When Wash continues to stare at him blankly, Tucker sighs. “On the _mission,_ Wash.”

“Oh.” Wash furrows his eyebrows. “Is that what your nightmare was about? The mission?”

“ _Nooooo!_ ” Tucker flops down onto the bed and drags a pillow over his face. “Or yes. Maybe. I don’t fucking know! I just know you were bleeding out all over and I couldn’t stop it and it fucking _sucked_.”

Wash can certainly sympathize there. He’s had enough dreams of watching his friends bleed out to last him a lifetime. “I know.”

He can understand Tucker’s nerves, and Wash would be lying if he said he didn’t feel them himself, stronger than usual. Only a few days ago, Kimball and Doyle had filled them on just who this new band of enemy soldiers were that they were fighting: former prisoners of the UNSC _Tartarus_. “Former prisoners? Like…like _murderers?!_ ” Palomo had asked, eyes huge, and the panic had spread through the army like wildfire. Wash can’t really fault them for their distress. Mercenaries, space pirates, an umbrella corporation, and now former prisoners. _Who_ they were going to run into next was anyone’s guess at this point.

Tucker whips the pillow away and sits up, his brown eyes sharp and focused. “Let’s _both_ not go.”

“What?”

“Let’s just….” Tucker hesitates before his words tumble out in a rush. “Let’s just fucking leave, okay? Can we like, steal a Pelican and get _off_ this planet before we both end up dead?”

“Tucker.”

“No, I’m serious.” Tucker pushes out of bed then, yanking his headband off in agitation. “Let’s leave. Right now. We’ll grab Caboose and get a plane and bust the fuck up out of here.”

“Tucker,” Wash says again. He tries to snag Tucker’s arm, but Tucker dances out of his reach. “Look—”

“We’ll get the Reds and Carolina, too,” Tucker continues stubbornly. “And Ali and the rest of the guys. And Dr. Grey. Kimball, too, she needs a vacation. And…and the fucking teenage cadets and…our Lieutenants…”

Wash watches the emotions war on his face, anger and stubbornness and finally, a hard realization. Tucker stops his pacing to sit on the bed next to Wash, staring dully at the floor. “We have to finish this. Don’t we?”

With a sigh, Wash turns his body so that it’s facing Tucker’s. He waits until Tucker catches his gaze and holds it before saying, “If you want to go, we’ll go.”

Tucker clenches his jaw hard. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Wash finds his hand and squeezes. “But I don’t think you’d be able to live with yourself if we did.”

Tucker snorts. “And _you_ would?”

Wash hesitates, but he can find no way to soften the answer. “If we got out everyone we cared about, then yes.”

“Because you don’t give a damn about this planet,” Tucker says flatly. “Really? _Still?_ ”

“Because I don’t give a damn about this planet,” Wash echoes. “But I _do_ give a damn about an awful lot of the people on it. Our list of all the people we’d want to get out, it’s…it’s too big. We’d never accomplish it. We’d have to leave too many people behind—people who _wanted_ to stay behind. I don’t think _either_ of us could live with that.”

Tucker nods, face miserable and resigned, but determined as well. “So we finish this.”

“We finish this.” Wash sighs, and this time when he pulls Tucker in, he goes willingly, burying his face in the crook of Wash’s neck.

“Promise me you won’t do anything stupid,” Tucker says, his words slightly muffled. “On the mission. Promise me.”

“Stupid how?”

“Stupid like, self-sacrificial.”

“I won’t do anything stupidly self-sacrificial.”

Tucker pulls away to glare at him. “I _mean it_.”

Wash huffs. “We’ve been on half a dozen missions since arriving here, Tucker.”

“Yeah, but this is _big._ We’re going on the offensive against a bunch of fucking _nutters_ here. If you collapse any rock tunnels I swear to fucking _God,_ Wash—”

“I won’t,” Wash promises. “I _won’t_. I’ll get us all out of there, myself included. Okay?”

Tucker doesn’t answer, but he flops back down against Wash’s chest. Wash hits the light switch and plunges them back into darkness, lying awake until Tucker’s breathing evens out.

* * *

 

“I don’t like it.”

Kimball’s hands clench around the edge of her desk. “You have made that very clear, _thank_ you General Doyle.”

Wash actively avoids looking at Carolina and can feel her avoiding his gaze as well as Doyle sputters. “Miss Kimball—we agreed _months_ ago that at least one of our esteemed Freelancers must remain in the capital at _all_ times! Sending both of them on a mission of this magnitude is not only risky, but—dare I say—foolhardy as well.”

“I’m sorry, did you just say it was _foolhardy?_ ” Kimball pushes away from her desk and folds her arms across her chest. “This is _war_. We can’t just _sit here_ and wait for Charon to come wipe us out!”

“Can’t we?”

“No, we can’t,” Kimball snaps. “We have to act. We’re strong. We have ammo, we have medical supplies, we have Agents Washington and Carolina who, as you may have noticed, have been instrumental in most of our victories lately. We know who these enemy soldiers are and we know where they’re going to _be_. They won’t expect a move like this!”

“Oh yes, you are _quite_ right there,” Doyle says with a scoff. “We know that we are sending our best soldiers up against a band of ruthless ex-prisoners—”

“Ruthless ex-prisoners who are occupying one of our civilian cities!”

“I am certainly not denying the importance of that, it’s just— _really_ , I should think it quite obvious that one of the Freelancers should stay behind to protect—”

“To protect who? _You?_ ”

Doyle sputters. “What—of course not _me!_ To protect the capital! To protect our home! To—”

_Home, home, home._

Doyle’s words fade into the background as Wash glances back out through one of the windows, through to the landing bay where the soldiers are getting ready for the day’s mission. He can see the Reds and Blues there, laughing bickering and shoving each other. Every single one of them is going on this operation.

 _I don’t give a damn about the planet_ , his own voice whispers, and Wash clenches a fist hard at his side.

“I’m going,” he cuts in, and both Kimball and Doyle falter. “I’m going on this mission. Let me know when it’s time to leave.”

He sees Epsilon’s head jerk towards him sharply as Wash turns on his heel and exits, half-expecting someone to stop him. No one does, and he closes the door behind him with a bang.

The chaos that meets him leeches some of the tension out of his spine. All of the soldiers going on the mission are clustered around the Pelican, every one of them loud and boisterous. To mask their anxiety, more likely than not. He’s seen it before—has _been_ there before. Tucker and Donut are on Grif’s and Sarge’s respective shoulders, having what seems to be a chicken fight to the delight of half the army. Wash sighs, leaning up against the wall next to Caboose. “Who’s winning?”

“I am,” Caboose says serenely, and leaves it at that. Wash grins to himself, watching the chaos unfold. He winces as Donut goes tumbling to the ground, but bounces back up good naturedly seconds later.

“There are a lot of people going on this mission,” Caboose says suddenly. “A _loooot_ of people.”

Wash looks at him, but Caboose says nothing more, only continues to watch the ridiculous chicken fights taking place in front of them. “That’s true,” Wash agrees finally. “There _are_ a lot of people.”

“A lot of friends,” Caboose says, his voice still cheerful and inconsequential, but the words take Wash’s heart and squeeze it like a vice.

“It’ll…it’ll be okay, buddy,” he says, stumbling over the words, awkward and clunky. “Our friends—they’ll be fine.”

Caboose looks at him. “Promise?”

Wash can’t do it. He can’t look at Caboose, at that helmet that he’d made him, and lie. “I can’t promise that,” he sighs. “But I promise that we’ll _try._ To get out of there. To get _everyone_ out.”

“Okay,” Caboose says, just like that, as if it’s that _simple_ , and Wash can only stand there and pray that it is.

They fall silent and seconds later, Carolina is walking up to them. “That was a dramatic exit,” she says wryly.

Wash huffs. “The amount of time those two spend arguing—we could run twenty missions in the time it takes them to make a decision about oen.”

“These aren’t easy decisions, Wash.”

“I _know,_ boss.” He takes a deep breath and forces some of the tension out of his voice. “So? Are you allowed to go, or do you have to stay?”

“I’m coming,” she says, and Wash really does feel some of the tension leave him at that. “The mission is too big. They need me.”

There is nothing smug about her tone, only a simple statement of irrefutable fact. Wash sure as heck isn’t going to refute it. He nods as Tucker comes bounding over to him, slightly out of breath. “We getting this party started or what?”

“That depends,” Epsilon says, appearing in front of his face. “You guys done screwing around? Or do you need to play a little bit more before we start?”

Tucker goes mysteriously deaf at Epsilon’s words, turning instead to say something to Grif, but before Wash can think too hard on it, Kimball arrives and starts marshaling them all into various groups. Wash finds himself on the Pelican with Tucker, Carolina, Caboose and Sarge, and half a dozen of Tucker and Caboose’s cadets. Epsilon flits around everyone’s heads, running through mission plans as they all settle in. “Now, remember, we have to approach them _slowly_ , in groups. If we go barreling in there all at once then they’re gonna—”

“We _get it_ , Epsilon,” Tucker cuts in tersely after a solid five minutes of chatter, and Epsilon sputters to a halt. “Don’t know who the fuck you think put _you_ in charge of this mission, but okay.”

They glare at each other until Epsilon winks away, reappearing over Carolina’s shoulder across the Pelican. Carolina throws a half-glance Tucker’s way, but her attention is on the plans and maps sprawled out on the floor between her and Sarge. Tucker folds his arms across his chest and glares at the floor as if it’s personally wronged him.

It takes Wash a few moments to realize just why the exchange left him so uneasy. _Epsilon hadn’t snapped back_ , he realizes. He’d actually shut up when Tucker had told him to, which was completely at odds with everything Wash had come to know about the Reds and Blues. And Tucker—Tucker had called him Epsilon _._

Not Church. _Epsilon._

Wash frowns, trying to remember if that had been going on for a while. He vaguely remembers Tucker referring to Epsilon as such immediately after the mission at the warehouse, but that had been over a month ago…

Wash realizes with sudden alarm that he can’t remember the last time he saw Epsilon and Tucker actually interact. He glances across the Pelican, to where Epsilon is kicking his foot dejectedly against one of Sarge’s maps, his back to Tucker, who is still in full-blown sulk mode.

Wash opens a private radio channel with Tucker and ventures a cautious, “Um.”

Tucker’s gaze locks onto his own. _“What?”_

“How long has…that been going on?”

Tucker stares at him until Wash gestures at Epsilon. “What _about_ Epsilon?”

“That. Right there.” Wash drops his voice. “Tucker. Why are you calling him _Epsilon?_ ”

“Because that’s who he _is,_ ” Tucker says, suddenly fierce. “That’s his fucking _name,_ isn’t it?”

“It is,” Wash says slowly. “But…”

“Are you going somewhere with this?” Tucker snaps. “Because we have _way_ more important shit to be worrying about at the moment.”

“Is this…” Wash hesitates. “Is this...because of the warehouse? Because of what I told you? About Freelancer?”

“No,” Tucker says. He fidgets. “Well okay fine, that’s part of it.”

“What’s the _other_ part?”

“The other part is that he’s _not fucking Church,”_ Tucker hisses. He jerks his visor towards Epsilon and glares some more. “He’s not….he’s not _Alpha,_ and he’s _pretending_ to be, and it’s _fucked_. It’s _so_ fucked up.”

“But you knew that,” Wash says, surprised. “You knew they were different.”

“ _Yeah_ , but…” Tucker scuffs his foot against the deck of the Pelican and shrugs. “I don’t know, I guess I didn’t really get it. Not until the warehouse.”

Wash waits, unsure of how far to push, but Tucker continues in a burst. “He just—ever since he found out I....ya know…had a _thing_ for you, he kept fucking lecturing me. Even after that damn warehouse, when you were all fucked up, he thought I was gonna take advantage, like, _oh, the shit you used to pull in the canyon Tucker!_ And I was like, dude! How the fuck would you even know? You weren’t there. You weren’t _with_ us in the canyon. You’re not Alpha, because Alpha’s gone.”

Wash looks at Epsilon, biting his lip and hesitating before saying, “You know that’s my fault, right?”

Tucker throws a glance his way. “ _What’s_ your fault?”

“That Alpha is gone.”

Tucker freezes in his movements, turning to face him fully this time. “Yeah. I know that.”

“Then you know it’s me you should be angry with.”

“I’m sorry, didn’t we already have this conversation like, a million years ago?” Tucker says, annoyed. “I _know_ what you did, Wash.”

“I’m only saying,” Wash says carefully, “that it’s not Epsilon’s fault he isn’t Alpha.”

“Then he shouldn’t be pretending,” Tucker says angrily. “He shouldn’t be pretending like he is—”

“That’s not entirely his fault, either,” Wash says.

“I can’t believe—” Tucker forces his voice back down to a whisper, despite the fact that no one else can hear them. “ _I cannot believe that you’re defending him._ ”

“I’m not defending him,” Wash says calmly. “I’m just….what was done to him was cruel and it’s not a shock that he sometimes forgets—willingly or no—what’s real and what’s not.”

“Do you forgive him?”

“What?”

Tucker gestures at the back of his head. “For what he did to you. Do you forgive him?”

Wash sets his jaw. “I—no. I don’t.”

Tucker snorts. “ _Okay,_ then. Maybe don’t fucking lecture me about it.”

“I’m not _lecturing_ you,” Wash snaps. “I’m just—look. I’m just _saying_ , maybe you two could talk about this or—”

“Ugh!” Tucker throws up his hands. “I’m so fucking sick of talking about shit! Besides, he doesn’t _want_ to talk to me. He’s so fucking _jealous_ he can’t stand to even look at me—”

Wash frowns. “Jealous? Of what?”

“Of…” Tucker gestures vaguely in between Wash and himself. “You know.”

“No,” Wash says blankly, “I don’t.”

Tucker sighs loudly. “Of _us_.”

“Of us…on this mission?”

“Oh my God,” Tucker groans, smacking his head back against the wall. “ _Noooo._ Of us. Of you and me. Of this…thing between us.”

“Thing?”

“ _Of our relationship,”_ Tucker emphasizes. “Of the fucking! The flirting! The cuddling and shit! He’s _jealous_.”

Wash laughs, startled. “What? Why on Earth would he be jealous of _us?_ ”

Tucker gives him an exasperated look that Wash can detect even through his visor. “Dude. _Seriously?_ ” When Wash doesn’t answer, Tucker sighs, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees. “ _Wash._ He loved you.”

Wash laughs again, dimly aware that it sounds a bit more unhinged this time. “What—he didn’t—we weren’t—it wasn’t _like that,_ he was my A.I., we were partners—”

“I don’t mean _like that._ Not _love_ in the way that _I_ —I mean—not in like, the way that _people,_ some people, love other people that they’re—dating and—” Tucker sits back in his seat, visibly flustered. Wash stares at him. “I mean, didn’t you two have some sort of like, mind meld going on? Wasn’t that the whole point?”

“Well…when you have a smart A.I. implant into you, even a fragment…it’s…of course, it’s intimate…” Wash frowns, flustered. “He’s been in Carolina’s head as well. And yours. Are you saying that means he loves you guys, too?”

“Yes,” Tucker says immediately. “That’s _exactly_ what I’m saying. But it was different, with you."

“He was my A.I. for less than a week,” Wash says, unsure of why he feels quite so panicky. “He _hates_ me, Tucker.”

“He doesn’t,” Tucker says quietly. “You guys just…went through some shit together. He—look. You trust me, right?”

“Yes,” Wash says immediately. “You know that.”

“Do you trust _him?_

“No.” He can barely even say the words. “Not anymore.”

“That’s my point,” Tucker says. He looks over to Epsilon, who is chatting away in Caboose’s palm. “The point is, he fucked it up and he _knows_ he fucked it up, and he knows _he can’t fix it.”_

“ _You_ can fix it, though,” Wash says, determined to direct the conversation back to its original point. “You two. You can…he cares about, you Tucker. About all of you. You were the…the first friends he ever had.”

“We weren’t,” Tucker says, still in that same unnervingly quiet voice. “ _You_ were.”

They both finally fall silent for good after that.

* * *

 

_BANG BANG BANG_

Wash drops and rolls, pressing his back hard against the retaining wall as he comes back up in a crouch, listening hard.

“Everyone good?” he sounds out over his team’s frequency. The various affirmative replies ease his tension and he smiles to himself because things are going _well._

Their Pelicans were grounded two miles out in a jungled ravine and the hike had, amazingly, been void of all whining. They’d crossed ground to surround the occupied southern quadrant of Lanic City where the captured civilians had first sent alerts to Kimball and Doyle about the enemy presence and the origins of mismatched fighters. From where he is crouched, Wash can see the blurry outline of the prison airship docked far beyond the boundaries of the city.

The news had been troubling; press ganged convict soldiers would doubtless be a difficult enemy. But they’ve been on the ground in active combat pushing an hour and Wash has come to the conclusion that unless these soldiers are being _intentionally_ disorganized and inattentive, they’re simply _not that good_. He thinks now that some of the hysterical panic that had gripped the army as of late was a bit too generous.

 _A lot of white collar criminals_ , he muses to himself, dispatching a scrawny soldier who managed to _trip_ from out of a doorway. Felix and Locus were clearly not concerned with training their soldiers.

There is little to no comradery between them, either. Even as he watches, one of the former prisoners shoves another on top of a well-timed grenade launched by Donut, and takes off into the trees. Wash’s chest swells with pride as from across the courtyard he’s currently taking cover in, he sees Prajapati take out the fleeing soldier, back pressed tight to Patil’s, in a way they’ve never accomplished in training. He sees Simmons signaling that the block is clear, and his team moves forward.

 _They’re retreating,_ Wash marvels, watching the pirates break rank and fall back towards their various Pelicans. They’re actually _retreating,_ some of them even running. He opens his team’s radio, keeping his rifle carefully up as he scans the immediate area. “Boss, are you seeing this?”

“Sure am.” Carolina’s voice comes only the slightest bit out of breath. Wash catches a glimpse of aqua armor across the battlefield that he instantly identifies as Carolina, twirling her way across the field. “Washington, move your squad forward. I’ll take out a few more of these idiots and circle up with you.”

“On it.”

Wash snaps his radio off, and turns, opening his HUD to pinpoint the location of his squad. They’re all nearby, their heat signatures pulsing reassuringly. He double-checks Caboose and Tucker’s location and starts out towards them. He should get to them first before advancing. He should—

_KA-BLAM!_

Pain punches hard through his left thigh, jerking a yell out of his throat and dropping him to his other knee. He whirls, rifle up, scrambling to put his back to something and retreats to the retaining wall he’d been leaning against. High above him, in the windows of one of the tallest buildings, he catches the gleam of metal in the sun, the glint of a sniper rifle, and of armor, grey and green—

Wash swings his rifle up and empties half his clip at the window, sending Locus ducking out of sight for a moment before another bullet explodes in the wall inches from Wash’s head. Something bright and red dances across his eyesight, and Wash looks down to see the red dot of a tracker leveled at his chest. Wash steals a glance at his thigh. The bullet had punched straight through his armor, and he can feel the blood leaking freely down his leg. It would pierce his chest plate no problem.

He keeps his own gun up, gaze locked onto the window. He can’t see Locus, can only see the glint of the sniper rifle pointed at his heart, but he can feel Locus’s eyes boring into his own.

Silence. Wash’s breathing is heavy and ragged in his ears, and he can feel the blood pooling underneath his leg. He reaches slowly for his canister of biofoam and no sooner has it in his hands that the _KA-BLAM_ of the rifle sounds again, and the canister spins away, exploding against the wall behind him. Another shot comes seconds after the first, striking his battle rifle and missing his hand by centimeters. Wash manages to hold onto the gun, but the message couldn’t have been clearer: _DROP IT._

Gritting his teeth, Wash carefully lowers the gun to the ground and raises his hands. As the red dot reappears on his chest once more, a voice sounds, loud and agitated and not far at all from his position. “Jesus Christ, I _am_ at the southwest quadrant and I _still_ don’t see him! At the house with the green door—yes you _did_ say green door! Look, just upload his position to my fucking HUD and I’ll find him!”

Felix. This is bad. The red dot holds steady over his chest, but another shot doesn’t come. He’s alive. Locus could’ve shot him ten times over by now, but he didn’t, and Felix is on his way to his position, which means they want him to stay alive.

Which most _certainly_ does not mean anything good.

His thoughts swirl in his head, the pain and blood loss making everything slow and sluggish. There’s nothing for it. He’s not getting out of this alone. He needs help. He needs—

Using his helmet’s voice prompting feature, Wash takes a deep breath and opens the radio up to his team’s frequency. “Agent Washington reporting in,” he says, doing his best to keep his voice level. “I’ve been shot in the leg and I’m pinned down by a sniper on the southwestern quadrant of the field.”

Tucker responds first, uttering an impressive string of curses before snapping, “Jesus _Christ!_ I knew this was too easy—alright, hang on dude—”

“We copy, Wash,” Carolina says, her voice steady if a little thin. “Tucker, Caboose—you’re the closest. Can you get to his position?”

Epsilon sputters, voice coming through higher than normal. “C, _we_ need to get over there too!”

“Already on it,” Tucker says. “I’ve got it, Epsilon—”

Wash presses his head back against the wall, trying not to focus on just how red the ground underneath him looks. “Tucker,” he says, his voice slurring slightly on the last syllable. “I didn’t do the stupid heroic thing, see? I called you guys.”

“Very funny,” Tucker says, his voice sharp. “Glad you’re choosing _now_ to start cracking jokes.”

Wash moves a hand slowly towards his thigh—he needs to put pressure on this wound—but another bullet pings so close to his hand that it actually stings a little. _Fuck._

“Um, Tucker, that was an awfully loud boom,” Caboose says nervously.

“Yeah, I know, Caboose—Wash, _what the fuck was that,_ are you—”

“I’m fine. Warning shot.” Wash sucks in a breath around the pain. “Tucker—Caboose—be _careful._ The sniper is on the twentieth floor of the brown building, and…”

 _And Felix is here_. God, what a mess. He doesn’t realize he’s said it out loud until Tucker’s voice comes again urgently. “Wash, _what’s a_ _mess?_ ”

Wash closes his eyes, forces himself to stop rambling and focus. He must be losing more blood than he thought. “The sniper is Locus.” His hesitation is only momentary. “Felix is here, too. Close by.”

Tucker curses under his breath. “ _Of course._ Okay, hang on Wash, we’re coming to you.”

Wash glances out from around the corner of the building. He can see Felix stalking around about fifty away. He’s engaged in a firefight with several of the Federalist soldiers, so Wash thinks they have some time, but not much. “Be careful.” Wash hesitates before adding. “Locus could have killed me, but he didn’t.”

They all hear the unspoken meaning behind his words, and when Carolina says, “Tucker, I’m coming over there to help,” he doesn’t utter a word of protest.

“Fucking finally,” Epsilon says. “Let’s put some pep in our goddamn step here, people!”

Wash nods before remembering that they can’t see him, but the effort that it takes to form words is almost impossible at that point. They’re coming. His team is coming, and everything inside of him is at war, torn between wanting to just _let_ them and wanting to keep them all far, far away. They shouldn’t get hurt trying to save him. They’ll kill him if he doesn’t let them.

Wash peers out from behind the wall again, forcing the words out. “Guys—be careful—don’t do anything too risky—”

He never finishes his sentence. There’s a blur of orange and grey in his peripheral and suddenly Wash is turning, snagging the pistol from his hip and firing it as soon as he has a visual. He ignores the pain in his bad leg and swallows down a yelp, raising himself up slightly, but his assailant is too close for him to reload and the gun goes spiraling out of his hands.

Felix aims a kick at his chest that has Wash hitting the ground hard on his back, and when that foot follows him down, he thinks fast. He grabs his knife from its holster and buries it in Felix’s calf. Felix howls, bending down to pull the knife out and toss it aside, where it sinks with a _thunk_ into a nearby fence post.

“Oh, you asshole,” Felix breathes, and then he lifts his foot up and stomps it down hard above the bullet wound in Wash’s thigh.

Wash’s vision goes grey at the edges and bright red in the center as he lets out a short, agonized scream. His HUD is flashing at him, warning him of blood loss and imminent unconsciousness and Tucker and Caboose and Epsilon are frantic in his ear, but there’s no time for any of that because Felix drops his knee hard into Wash’s solar plexus and grits out, “You know, I’ve had just about _enough_ of you.”

The breath leaves Wash in a whoosh, but he still struggles as Felix pops the seals on his helmet. The pain in his leg and loss of breath leave Wash unable to do anything more than paw Felix’s hands, and Felix gets it off of his head in no time. He wraps one hand around Wash’s throat, armored fingers digging onto his exposed flesh, and uses his other hand to amplify the radio.

Tucker’s voice is suddenly loud and angry between them. “Wash, I swear to _God_ —look, just stay right there, don’t move—”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Felix says suddenly. “Agent Washington isn’t going anywhere. I’ll make sure of that.”

There’s a moment of silence before Caboose mutters, “Well, _that’s_ just not very nice of you.”

“Oh, this is just _too_ rich. _Captain_ Tucker. You know, I so hoped you would be the one to answer. And we have the big blue idiot listening in as an added bonus!” Felix’s grip tightens around his throat, and Wash claws at his fingers as his vision starts to darken. “I’m _almost_ tempted to make the both of you listen to me kill him right now.”

Carolina is silent, listening hard, but Wash can hear her quiet exhale over the radio. He thinks, suddenly, of Rockslide, of listening to her breathe on the other end of the radio for the first time in years—soft and slow and steady.

Epsilon is apparently unable to keep silent any longer, and his voice is ugly, full of anger. “Listen up you sick son of a bitch—”

“Seven,” Wash croaks, and Felix glances down at him. “There’s seven of them around us—still a sniper—be careful—”

Felix tightens his grip, squeezing hard enough now to cut off Wash’s words. “You just shut the fuck up down there,” he snaps.

“Wash,” Tucker says, sounding remarkably calm, far calmer than Wash would’ve expected of him. “Just hang tight, we’re on our way—”

“Hey, Tucker,” Felix says brightly. “Remember when you were freaking out because you thought Wash here was being tortured by the enemy for _all_ those weeks?”

There’s a beat in which Felix stands, grinding his foot purposely onto Wash’s thigh once more. Wash lets out a strangled cry at the pain, thrashing away, but Felix presses down harder still until Wash’s vision starts to double and his cry edges towards a scream. “Well,” Felix says smugly, holding Wash’s helmet high. “I just want to make sure that you know that _this_ time? It’s gonna be _true_.”

The last thing Wash hears is Tucker and Epsilon screaming over the radio before Felix rips the whole thing out of his helmet.


	22. Chapter 22

The radio cuts out with a high-pitched whine of feedback that sends Tucker clawing at his helmet, cringing at the sound. He turns the volume down low on his own radio, then turns to fumble with Caboose’s, until the feedback runs itself out and there is only silence and breath.

Tucker focuses on that: Caboose’s loud open-mouth breathing, Carolina’s soft little exhales, Epsilon’s rhythmic static. There is nothing from Wash. Wash breathes like the sea, steady and soothing, but Tucker cannot hear the sound of the tide rolling in and out, in and out, in and—

“Wash?”

Carolina speaks first, her voice small and scared and unlike anything Tucker has ever heard from her. It sends an icy chill straight down Tucker’s spine, Wash’s name falling from her mouth—not the firm _Agent Washington, report_ that Tucker was expecting, but an uncertain question to which they all know the answer.

“They’ve got him,” Epsilon says, voicing it anyway. “His radio is destroyed. Tucker—Caboose—”

Tucker doesn’t realize he’s been clutching Caboose’s forearm until he feels it wrenched away from him as Caboose takes off at full speed. _You can really see how fucking_ big _Caboose is when he runs,_ Tucker thinks blankly. He forgets it himself, sometimes, the extent of Caboose’s power and strength, but seeing him charge across the battlefield as if someone’s life depended on it—

Which it does, of course. _Wash’s_ life depends on it. Wash’s life depends on their speed and their strength and their wits and Tucker is _standing here_ like an _idiot_ while motherfucking _Caboose_ is all over that rescue mission shit.

Color and sound return to Tucker with a _bang,_ blinding and overwhelming in their intensity, and he stumbles forward, tangles himself up in his own feet, and falls on a shaky knee. _Frozen in fear,_ that was the expression, and Tucker had never understood it because he acted without thinking, as Wash was so fond of saying. Tucker was always moving, always _doing_ , always charging forward, barreling into collapsing rock tunnels and the blades of knives when his friends were in danger, but now, _but now_ , he can’t move, he can’t _breathe_ , his limbs have frozen into ice, and Tucker realizes that he has never in all his life been this terrified.

_Not_

_Again._

The words drop into the center of his skull, stones into a frozen wishing well, and Tucker watches their fault lines fracture across the ice—

_“Freckles, shake!”_

Not _again._

The ice shatters and Tucker breaks free, charging after the blue blur that is Caboose, both of them running like they’ve never run in their lives. He watches Caboose skid to a halt fifty yards ahead of him, a spray of bullets striking the ground, and Tucker casts his eyes around until they land on one of the useless ex-prisoners, hiding in a doorway and doing his best to waylay Caboose. Tucker puts a bullet through the center of his visor before the fucker can actually learn to use that gun. Ten seconds later, one of the space pirates appears out of fucking nowhere and launches himself at Caboose, who is already charging full speed ahead once more. Caboose shakes him off as if he weighs nothing, and the pirate goes flying headfirst into a brick wall, landing limply with his head twisted at a sickening angle. Jesus _Christ._

“Caboose, be careful!” he yells over the radio, as Caboose cuts heedlessly through another spray of bullets. “You’re gonna get yourself _shot_ and then I’m gonna have to save both of your asses!”

Caboose doesn’t even _answer_ him, the fucker, no stupid comments or cheerful wisecracks. Tucker forces his legs to move faster still, because he’s only heard Caboose go dead quiet like that after _very bad things_ had happened, like that time when Caboose had hauled Wash off of him after that terrible nightmare at Rockslide, or after Epsilon had screamed at them in the holo-projection chamber, or after he’d got the news that one of his sisters had died, or—

Tucker is accosted himself then by another one of the space pirates, who comes at him from the side with two pistols drawn in true asshole fashion. The motion barely catches the edge of Tucker’s peripheral, and he turns hard, crouching low and firing up until the pirate drops, the pistols falling limply from his hands.

He notes belatedly that the radio channel they’d linked up for everyone on the mission to share is pinging incessantly. He switches over just in time to hear Sarge saying, “Carolina, I’ve cleared your way— _go_ —”

Tucker straightens out of his crouch as a blur of aqua zoom by: Carolina, the whir of her speed mods a familiar and welcome sound. She catches up to Caboose and then surpasses him, rounding a corner that Caboose soon turns as well. Tucker covers them both, dispatching pirates and ex-cons alike, until he finally rounds the corner to the coordinates where Wash’s position had last been triangulated.

Blood. There is so much _blood_ soaked into the dirt. It can’t all be Wash’s. It _can’t,_ because if he’d lost that much blood he’d be unconscious or—

Tucker flails in a frantic circle, searching for Wash or the rest of his team. Twenty yards up and to his left he can see Carolina engaged in a furious fight with Felix, all fists and tackles and flashing knives, their guns forgotten on the ground. Caboose is exchanging impatient fire with several more pirates, and several more of their own soldiers have joined the fray: Prajapati and Patil, Fitz and Martinez. Everyone is engaged, leaving Tucker free to continue his desperate searching until—

 _There_. Yellow and steel, green and grey. Tucker’s eyes land on Locus, several city blocks ahead as the merc makes his way towards a Pelican drop ship and there, slung over his shoulder, is Wash. He’s limp and boneless and his helmet is off, and before Tucker can think on if it’s a smart idea or not, he screams, _“WASH!”_ so loud that Locus turns to look at him.

_Not again._

Tucker runs.

He _runs_ , taking off at a dead sprint, ducking and weaving and sprinting in between the pairs of fighters. Locus watches his progress dispassionately for a few seconds before turning and continuing towards the Pelican, the breeze that blows sudden and swift through the buildings ruffling Wash’s hair and Tucker can see it now, just barely, the blood staining all that blond.

“Wash, Wash, Wash,” he chants under his breath as he runs, and he’s getting there, he’s closing in until some fucking pirate comes flying out of the shadows and lunges towards him with the world’s biggest knife.

“ _NO!_ ” Tucker yells, and he turns to meet the pirate, using his gun to block the knife and twist it away, just like Wash had taught him, just like they’d practiced. He grabs the falling knife, flips it in his hand— _at twelve feet you throw it by the blade, it’s all about depth perception you can do it I know you can come try it again_ — and hurls it at another approaching enemy soldier, where it sinks through the center of his visor, before turning back to asshole number one and putting several bullets into his head.

“Tucker, _go,_ I’ll cover you!”

Ali’s voice sounds in his ear—Tucker can’t see him, didn’t even know he was close by, but he doesn’t question it. He simply runs, vision tunneling in towards where Wash and Locus are, but he isn’t getting there fast enough—the Pelican’s ramp is descending and he _isn’t getting there fast enough—_

_“NO!”_

The word tears out of him again, so loud it burns his throat, as the door closes just before his scrabbling hands. He activates his sword and plunges it into the side of the Pelican, but before he can start slicing his way in, a bullet grazes his forearm and he jerks back with a yelp, his sword dropping into the dirt next to him as he falls. The blood and the pain are dim, unimportant things, and Tucker pushes up to his feet but it’s too late, the Pelican is lifting off.

There’s a flash of bright blue and suddenly Caboose is _there_ , taking a flying leap through the air and launching himself at the Pelican. He catches onto the bottom as it lifts off and swings until he is standing on the side.

“Caboose—”

The name catches in his throat and Tucker clenches a hand around his sword, eyes fixed on his teammate high above him. Caboose inches his away along the edge of the Pelican until he reaches the panel where Tucker’s sword had pierced the hull, draws his arm back, and puts his fist through the opening.

Tucker realizes he’s muttering under his breath, an incoherent stream of _holyfuckingshit jesus fuck jesus christ,_ as Caboose widens the tear in the hull with nothing but his hands. There’s a brief moment where Tucker thinks it might actually _work_ , that Caboose can fight his way inside and take out these fuckers and bring Wash back--

But then Caboose is jerking to the side and flattening himself against the edge of the Pelican as a stream of bullets sprays out of the side, and Tucker hisses sharply as he watches Caboose put a hand to his ribs and curl in on himself. The Pelican is rising faster still, and it’s high, it’s _much_ too high and Caboose is hurt and he can see Felix now, his torso sticking out through the hole in the Pelican. He reaches for Caboose, fastening a hand around his chestplate and Tucker’s heart stops because that’s his team up there, that’s his fucking _team_ and he is about to lose them _both._

Felix doesn’t yank Caboose into the Pelican as he was expecting, just shoves him back hard until his feet leave the side of the ship. Tucker’s heart swells in something like pride as Caboose latches hard onto Felix’s arm and almost yanks him straight out with him. Felix wrenches free at the last moment, and the ship is speeding away and _Caboose_ —

Caboose falls. He falls so very fast from so very high, and Tucker feels a scream bubbling up through his throat. It never makes it out, just ends in a funny little gurgle, as Carolina activates her speed mods again and jumps so hard that she leaves a miniature crater in the ground. She catches Caboose in her outstretched arms, and the two of them tumble hard to the ground with an awful _THUD_.

Tucker runs to them, but Carolina is already on her feet and Caboose is pushing himself to a sit. Tucker grabs Carolina’s elbow and squeezes as she stumbles a little on her feet. “ _So_ badass,” is all he can manage, and once he is sure she’s steady he drops to his knees next to Caboose even as he frantically scans the skies for sight of the departing Pelican. “Caboose—Jesus Christ—”

He puts a hand over the bloody gash in Caboose’s side, but it appears that the bullet only grazed him. Caboose shakes his head and pushes Tucker away, gesturing wordlessly. Tucker turns, bewildered, but he sees only their friends still engaged in combat, and one of their own Pelicans resting on the ground.

Oh _. Oh._

He claps a hand on Caboose’s shoulder and spins, snagging Fitz as he charges by. “Fitz—cover them—I’m going after Wash—”

Before Fitz can say anything, Tucker is off, sprinting towards their Pelican. “Tucker, what are you doing?!” he hears Simmons cry as he passes him, but Tucker doesn’t answer. He has to go—the ship that has Wash’s is only a tiny blip in the distance and he has to go _now_ —

Grif’s voice comes incredulous over the radio. “Tucker, you can’t be serious—you can’t take that plane all by yourself!”

“Fucking come with me then!” Tucker snaps. He’s already halfway up the ramp. “We have to hurry—they’re getting away—”

“They’re already gone—”

“They’re not!” Tucker glances wildly at the horizon and after some searching, he finds it, the little black dot that is the departing ship. “They’re right there, we have to go after them, now!”

“And do _what?_ ” Simmons now. “We don’t have a plan—we can’t take them—”

“We can _take_ them,” Carolina says, her voice hard. “We can take them. Tucker, I’m coming to you—”

“It’s broken.”

They all fall silent as Caboose’s voice cuts in through their chatter, so quiet they almost missed it. “Caboose, _what’s_ broken?” Tucker asks urgently. He’s in the cockpit now, flipping switches and opening hatches, and realizes belatedly that nothing is lighting up, nothing is humming to life, _nothing_ —

“Our bird. The bad guys broke her.” Movement catches Tucker’s eye out of the Pelican’s windshield, and he sees Caboose standing up, a handful of broken wires from the belly of the Pelican cradled in his bloody hands.

* * *

“They’re cooked,” Epsilon says, twenty minutes later. He paces back and forth in front of Carolina, arms folded so tightly across his chest it looks as if he’s hugging himself. “ _All_ of them. All of our Pelicans. They’re destroyed. We can’t even get _ourselves_ out of this city, let alone go after…”

His avatar glitches, flashing _purplebluepurpleblue_. There’s a long moment of silence, during which everyone looks at each other. The space pirates and ex-cons are long gone, dead at their feet or retreated far into the city, and the air is eerily silent without the _booms_ from the guns and grenades.

“But we _have_ to,” Tucker says into the silence. “We have to—we’re going to lose him, we—”

“We’ve already lost him,” Grif says. He’s on his second cigarette, voice indifferent and uncaring, and Tucker _knows_ how Grif gets in a crisis, knows that this is Grif’s own way of dealing with things, but it doesn’t stop him from smacking the cigarette right out of his hands.

“No, _fuck_ that!” Tucker turns away, spinning and searching the skies once more for the tiny Pelican that he already knows to be long gone. “ _Fuck that!_ They wouldn’t be gone if someone would just _help me_ —if we leave now, we can go after them and…”

No one answers him. Tucker spins again to Epsilon. “Can’t you…can’t you track the Pelican, or—”

“It doesn’t matter if he can track the fucking Pelican!” Simmons snaps. “What are we going to _do_ , run after them on foot?”

“If we have to!” Tucker says angrily. He glances around at them, at dull, listless faces and blank helmets, before settling on Caboose. He’s sitting on the ground by Carolina’s feet, the gash in his side patched up with a smear of biofoam, the wires from the Pelican still clutched in his hands. “I’m going,” Tucker says. “You can all come or you can fuck off, but I’m going.”

Tucker turns, picks a direction at random, and starts marching. He doesn’t make it five seconds before a hand fastens around his forearm and wrenches him back: Grif, his face drawn and hard. “Uh, I don’t think so, ‘cause then we’re gonna have to rescue _two_ assholes from Blue Team and I do not have the energy to babysit Caboose during that time.”

“Grif—” Tucker jerks his arm, but Grif’s grip holds fast. “If you think this is funny—”

“Sit down, son,” Sarge snaps. Tucker turns in time to see him snatch up Grif’s fallen cigarette, stick it in his own mouth, and inhale deeply. “Man’s got to know when he’s lost, and we’ve lost this one. Nothing for it but to plan Operation: Free Frecklelancer.”

“Yeah, which starts right now.” Tucker wrenches his arm again, but Grif doesn’t let go.

“Alright, _look_ ,” Grif says. “It’s been a long day, I’m tired, and Donut ate all the ration bars—”

“I told you, I’m a _stress_ eater!”

“—before the mission even started, so I haven’t eaten in three hours.”

“A real tragedy, that,” Simmons mutters.

Grif ignores him. “So I really, really, _really_ don’t want to have to knock you out and drag you on the Pelican when it gets here, but I’ll do it, because you’re not mounting a one-man rescue mission with no plan and no rations. Sit. Down.”

Tucker finally pulls his arm out of Grif’s grasp, and Grif lets him. He doesn’t sit down, but he doesn’t take off running, either. Everyone’s looking at him. Everyone. He has to pull it together. He is a Captain. He has a duty to this planet.

_I don’t give a damn about the planet._

Wash’s voice echoes in his head and Tucker wants to laugh at the irony of it all. _It should have been someone else,_ he thinks, and then immediately hates himself for the thought. “This isn’t fair,” he says instead, his voice petulant and childish even to his own ears, but no one contradicts him.

No one says a single word.

* * *

It is late by the time the Pelicans arrive and take them back to base. Tucker is torn, between wanting to go straight to Kimball and demand resources for a rescue mission, and to go with Caboose to the infirmary. His world has contracted into circles—from Chorus, to the armies, to the sim troopers and Carolina, to Blue Team. It’s just him and Caboose, now, and the thought of leaving Caboose’s side—his stupid, _obnoxious_ side—is unthinkable.

“Go,” Carolina says, when she sees Tucker hesitate on the landing bay. “I’ll debrief the Generals. Sarge and I will start putting a plan together. Go with Caboose.”

He nods. “Thanks,” he says, too late, as Carolina is already halfway across the bay.

Tucker turns to where Caboose is sitting glumly on the ramp of the Pelican. “Let’s go. You look like shit.”

He does. None of them had even realized he’d hit his head in the fall until Epsilon, growing suspicious, had bullied him into taking his helmet off on the Pelican. Tucker had finally taken the goddamn thing off himself after Caboose had staunchly ignored them all, to reveal half of Caboose’s curls matted with blood.

Caboose ignores him— _still_ —and Tucker sighs loudly, slinging Caboose’s arm over his shoulder and pulling him to his feet. “Come on, you big baby. I know you can fucking walk on your own, Jesus _Christ_.”

He keeps Caboose’s arm there anyway, the entire way to the infirmary. He waits, clutching his helmet and trying not to tap his foot impatiently while Dr. Grey talks Caboose out of his armor and examines his injuries.

The bullet had indeed just grazed Caboose’s side, Dr. Grey confirms, and the wound isn’t cause enough for any real concern. “It’s his head that worries me, just a teensy bit,” she says. “How far did you say he fell from?”

Tucker blows out a breath, thinking. “Had to be forty feet?”

“It’s very lucky that Agent Carolina was able to break his fall….oh, I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,” Dr. Grey says, catching sight of Tucker’s drawn and worried face. “Just want to keep him overnight so that I can peek in on him if need be.”

Tucker glances at Caboose, expecting him to protest—he hates hospitals—but he says nothing. He hasn’t said a word since he’d discovered the damage to the Pelican, and that was hours ago. “Okay,” Tucker says instead. “I’ll stay with him for a minute. Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

“Are _you_ going to do anything stupid?”

Tucker looks up at her sharply, but she doesn’t look stern or disapproving, just miserable. _Wash was her friend, too,_ he reminds himself. “I might,” he says. “But not tonight. We—we don’t even know where he _is_ —”

Tucker turns the break in his voice into a cough. He can’t look at Dr. Grey as she puts a hand on his shoulder, but he reaches back to clutch her fingers, so tiny in his own. “We’ll get him back, silly,” she says.

He nods as her hand slips away, listening to the sound of her quiet footsteps crossing the room, and the snap of the door closing behind her. It’s just him and Caboose then, the beeping of the monitors the only sound in the silence.

Tucker sighs, drags a chair next to Caboose’s bedside, and drops down into it. “This is so fucked up,” he says, more to fill the silence than because he expects any sort of response, and sure enough, Caboose doesn’t answer. Tucker gives it up, just sits there and starts braiding his dreads back out of his face while Caboose stares listlessly at the ceiling. Wash should be there, with them. Wash should _be there_ fretting over Caboose’s stupid head wound and hounding Dr. Grey and asking if she was sure, if she was _really sure_ that he was going to be okay, because that’s what Wash did. He took care of them, looked out for them, and now he _needed them_ and they couldn’t even—

“Um, Tucker?”

Tucker pauses in the act of securing his hair back with a thick band and looks at Caboose, who is staring at him with a solemn look on his face. “Yeah?”

“Are they going to hurt Wash?”

Tucker closes his eyes and sets his jaw. He can’t look at Caboose. He can’t. “Yeah. They’re, uh…” he ties off his hair and lets his hands fall, clenching them hard in his lap. "They’re gonna hurt Wash.”

“Are they going to torture him?”

He turns sharply to look at Caboose then. “How do you—what does—who told you that?”

“I _know_ what torture is, _Tucker._ ”

Tucker shuts his mouth so fast he can actually hear the teeth click.

Caboose won’t meet his eye, just fidgets with a loose string in his blanket. “It’s, um. It’s like hurting people, but worse. Simmons says that the bad guys will torture him for information, but, ah. Yeah. I don’t think Felix wants information.”

He’s going to _kill_ Simmons. “What do you think he wants?”

“I think he just likes to make people hurt,” Caboose says. “It’s not very nice.”

“Jesus Christ,” Tucker says, for lack of anything else to say, anything at all

“Yeah,” Caboose says. “Yeah.”

“We’ll get him back,” Tucker says. “I fucking swear to God, Caboose. We’ll get him back and then he can yell at us for not cleaning our armor or some shit, _fuck,_ I don’t know.”

“Yeah,” Caboose says again.

Tucker leans his elbows on the side of Caboose’s bed and buries his face in his hands. When Caboose pats his head, it’s rough and awkward, but Tucker doesn’t shrug him off. He’s too tired.

He’s much too tired.

 

Sleep does not find him that night.

The thought of going to sleep in his own bed is laughable. He can’t go there, to his room that smells like Wash and probably still has Wash’s hair all over Tucker’s clean pillowcases. He can’t go to Wash’s room either, with the perfectly made bed that faced the window. Tucker had never asked why Wash went out of his way to yank the bed around so the window was at his feet. He thought there was time. He thought they’d have so much time.

 _Don’t think like that,_ he tells himself firmly, but it’s too late. The thoughts are there, burrowing black into his brain, and he cannot shake them off.

Tucker stays next to Caboose’s bedside for so long that he ends up just piling his armor on the floor and crawling into the empty bed across the aisle from Caboose. The infirmary bed is tiny, tinier than the one in his own room, but it feels miles wide with its emptiness. He and Wash didn’t spend every night together, but they spent enough, always close, always tangled up.

“You’re so warm,” Wash would mumble at him at some point almost every night. Tucker had thought at first that he was complaining about having an actual furnace in his bed, until he realized that Wash liked it, because Wash was always cold. _Always._ It could be eighty fucking degrees in the mess hall and he’d have a sweatshirt on. “There’s a draft,” he’d insist, whenever Tucker would bring this up. “It’s _chilly_."

So Tucker would pile every fucking blanket on top of them at night even if the temperature really only called for one, and he’d flop on top of Wash and they’d drift off, bundled up and warm. Wash slept better that way, with the warmth and the weight.

He wonders if Wash is cold right now, and once his brain latches onto this thought, he can’t let it go. Tucker wonders if Wash is in a cell somewhere, without a bed or a blanket. If the cell is drafty, or wet, of if they’ve purposely dropped the temperature. If he’s trying to get some rest or trying to stave off sleep. If he still has his Kevlar suit, or if he’s only in the thin sweatpants and t-shirt underneath them. If his cell has a window, or if it’s dark.

So very, very dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...so...fanart anyone?!
> 
> >>> [Wash & Tucker K I S S I N G](http://kyasrein.tumblr.com/post/149111931481/sometimes-i-just-want-my-gays-happy-and-kissing-in) by [kyasrein](http://kyasrein.tumblr.com)  
> >>> [Infirmary kiss](http://guiltypleasuretrashblog.tumblr.com/post/149374141541/those-kids-are-losing-their-freaking-minds) by [guiltypleasuretrashblog](http://guiltypleasuretrashblog.tumblr.com)  
> >>> [Wash pls](http://powerfulpomegranate.tumblr.com/post/150043299705/freshzombiewriter-prompted-dr-greys-face-in) by [powerfulpomegranate](http://powerfulpomegranate.tumblr.com)  
> >>> [Wash looking like a dork in love](http://guiltypleasuretrashblog.tumblr.com/post/150386456831/he-doesnt-look-at-me-like-that-tucker-says) by [guiltypleasuretrashblog](http://guiltypleasuretrashblog.tumblr.com)  
> >>> [Tucker looking like a dork in love](http://guiltypleasuretrashblog.tumblr.com/post/150425022086/it-does-look-just-like-him-tucker-has-to-admit) by [guiltypleasuretrashblog](http://guiltypleasuretrashblog.tumblr.com)  
> >>> [WALL SEX](http://charles-nsfw.tumblr.com/post/150374301052/emerges-from-the-dead-to-post-this-then) by [charles-nsfw](http://charles-nsfw.tumblr.com)  
> >>> [MORE WALL SEX](http://guiltypleasuretrashblog.tumblr.com/post/150428339916) by [guiltypleasuretrashblog](http://guiltypleasuretrashblog.tumblr.com)
> 
> after you are done SCREAMING OVER THE GLORIOUS ART, please join me in crying over [this gorgeous song (YES, SONG)](https://crabbiekat.tumblr.com/post/150791676560/fansong-for-put-my-guns-in-the-ground-by) that [crabbiekat](https://crabbiekat.tumblr.com/%22) wrote for this fic. I AM STILL NOT OVER THIS I WILL NEVER BE OVER THIS.
> 
> speaking of music! i don't think i ever actually shared this - [here is my 8tracks playlist](http://8tracks.com/saltsanford/put-my-guns-in-the-ground-part-1) for part one of this fic if anyone is interested! i chose one song for each chapter that i felt best expressed that chapter's most important moment. i'll be doing one for parts 2 and 3 as well! cover art by my rockstar beta [Melissa](http://hammeredpaint.tumblr.com). Zambo also put together an amazing playlist for this fic, which you can listen to [here!](http://8tracks.com/fresh-zambo/the-thing-about-love-on-the-battlefield) IT IS SO GOOD <3
> 
> okay i think that covers it. thank you all so much for the art and the music and the comments and the asks and the reblogs, I COULD NOT ASK FOR A BETTER GROUP OF READERS JFC. 
> 
> see ya'll next week :x  
> xoxo salt


	23. Chapter 23

There is no sound for snow falling.

There is only the quiet, and the blood rush in his ears, and the way the flakes melt like tears down the slope of his visor.

He lets his palms fall, and the snowflakes wink into stars before turning black.

* * *

They leave him lying there.

He senses this before he even opens his eyes to see, not the brightly colored shades of reds and blues bending over him, but the cold steel armor of the UNSC. “Oh, thank God,” one of the soldiers breathes weakly, as Washington stirs in the snow. “He’s alive. The Chairman wanted to question this one personally.”

“Looks like you get to keep your job after all,” one of the other says, clapping his comrade on the back. He puts a hand to the side of his helmet. “General Logan reporting in…”

Washington’s vision starts to go grey around the edges again, and his hearing flickers in and out like a badly tuned radio as the soldier drones on and on into his radio. “…touched down on Sidewinder…no sign of the simulation troopers….Agent Washington into custody…”

The soldier falters as Washington starts to laugh. The motion pulls painfully at his ribs and he should stop, but really, what does it matter? “It’s _funny_ ,” he slurs up at the soldier, in between giggles, and it is. It’s _so_ funny. It’s a goddamn hilarity, is what it is, that after all of it, after Alpha, after Epsilon, that his own journey _isn’t_ going to end here, bleeding out in the snow, that after everything he’s done to avoid going back to prison, _he’s going back to prison._

His laughter stops abruptly as someone finally plunges some biofoam into one of his many wounds in his torso that’s bleeding all over the snow. The snow is red, and the sky above him is so very blue, and he can’t bear to look at either of these colors, so he closes his eyes and lets the blackness take him.

* * *

He does not see the sun again for three years.

The Chairman, it turns out, is _not_ all that interested in questioning him personally. Once it becomes clear that the Epsilon unit is broken and that Washington has no idea how to open it, it’s game over. “I believe that you have lived out your usefulness, Agent Washington,” says the Chairman, and he flicks a dismissive hand at the guards waiting by the door. “Take him away.”

There’s a brief moment where Washington considers trying to fight them, but they lock his armor down before the thought can really take root. They take him away, to a place where he can’t cause any trouble, to a prison transport ship drifting through space.

They call it the UNSC _Tartarus._

Time is a funny thing. Washington blames it on the ceaseless, yawning black between the stars, but it seems to him that he blinks and three years have gone by. They pass in a blur, minutes blending into days into weeks into months. They are sluggish and slow and when he finds himself standing at the door of his cell, hands clenched around the bars, it is as if he’s woken up from a dream. The air crackles with a new intensity that his world was lacking all these long years, and he clenches his hands tighter around the bars and listens hard.

There are intruders on the ship—pirates, or mercenaries, possibly both. It doesn’t matter. So many of the words that they are saying do not matter— _kill lots of people for lots of money, we don’t care who you are, men who can follow orders, hold their own—_ They don’t matter _._ Only one thing registers:

Freedom.

“So if you’re willing to fight for your _freedom_ ,” one of the mercenaries says dramatically, “firmly grasp the bars of your cell in a show of solidarity.”

Washington can hear the murmurs of the prisoners around him— _who the fuck are these guys, can’t tell me what to do, this is bullshit, so fucked up, who cares sign me up_ —and none of that matters, either. His hands are wrapped around the bars before the mercenary has even finished speaking.

A good thing, too, as the airlock opens with a howl and he feels everything in him wrenched towards the endless space behind. Wash looks back despite himself, at the stars opening their arms to him at the makeshift window at his feet. It feels strange, to be looking at them from this angle—

_\--sometimes I think I joined up just to see stars like this—_

_\--the metal screeches on the floor as he drags his bed around to face the—_

Washington’s visions swims as his feet hit the floor hard, the airlock doors closing with a _CLICK._

“JESUS CHRIST!” the prisoner in the cell next to him howls, before vomiting all over the floor from the sounds of it.

“Congratulations,” the other mercenary says. “You’re hired.”

Washington straightens, shaking out his forearms and peering through the bars. The two mercenaries were going cell by cell, from the looks of it. Nothing for it but to wait until they reach his. He remains there at his door, forcing himself to wait, to be patient, to not pace the confines of his cell as he’s done so many times before. It seems to take forever for them to get there.

The soldier in green and grey does a double take when he reaches Washington’s cell, glancing repeatedly between Wash and the datapad in his hand. “Agent Washington,” he sounds out slowly. “Of Project Freelancer.”

“ _Former_ Agent of Project Freelancer,” Washington corrects wryly, gesturing around his cell. “As you can see, I’m no longer in their employment.”

The mercenary seems to grow even more intrigued. His comrade, on the other hand, could visibly not care less. “A Freelancer. _Fascinating._ Jesus, aren’t you guys supposed to be _dead?_ ”

“We are. _They_ are. I’m the only one left.”

The second mercenary snorts. “Uh, hate to break it to you, freckles, but it just so happens that on this very ship—”

“I know about the Counselor,” Washington interrupts. His eyes flick up and to the left to where he knows the Counselor’s cell to be before he can stop the motion, but he can tell they both saw it.

“You harbor ill feelings towards the Counselor?” the mercenary in green asks, watching him closely.

Washington does not try to hide the bitterness in his laugh. “Yeah. You could say that.”

“What about Agent Carolina?”

Wash lifts an eyebrow. “Are you going to try and tell me that she’s on the ship, too?”

“No, we’re going to tell you that she’s leading the band of _morons_ that are _royally_ fucking up our plans.” The second mercenary this time. Something has changed in his demeanor, a razor sharp focus on Washington where before there was a casual indifference.

“You might want to recheck your facts,” Washington says. “Agent Carolina is _dead._ ”

The merc sighs loudly, pulling up his own datapad and swiping through it. “Then who, pray tell, is _this?_ ”

He shoves the datapad at Wash, who takes it with a frown. A news article is pulled up on it, titled _COLORFUL SPACE MARINES STOP CORRUPTION._ Beneath it is a photograph of Chairman Malcom Hargrove himself, surrounded by red and blue soldiers that look oddly familiar—

“The simulation troopers,” he says in surprise.

The first mercenary leans in closer. “You know them?”

“Yeah,” Wash says slowly. “Yeah, I know them…”

He’s far, far more interested in the soldier in the aqua armor, shaking hands with the Chairman. He knows that armor, has fought beside it a million times, but—

“That’s not her,” he says, shoving the datapad back hard at Felix. “That’s not—that can’t be her. Agent Carolina is dead.”

“I can assure you, Agent Washington, she is not dead.”

“How the hell would _you_ know?”

“The Counselor has assured us that this soldier is indeed Agent Carolina,” the first mercenary says. “He has analyzed the footage we have of her fighting style. That combined with her armor enhancements and the Epsilon A.I. powering her suit—”

“The _what?_ ”

The words come far louder than he intended, and Washington realizes he’s gripping the bars of his cell so tightly that his knuckles are white. “I’m sorry,” he says, more calmly. He has to play this right or he’s never getting out of this goddamned cell. “I thought you said the _Epsilon A.I._ ”

“That I did,” the mercenary says slowly. “Does that upset you—”

“Oh, my _God_ ,” the second mercenary moans. “What is this, a therapy session? Look. The bottom line is, the Freelancer and her little _sim trooper_ friends, are turning into real thorns in our sides. We need people to take them _out._ You in, or what, Agent Washington?”

“You can drop the Agent,” Washington snaps. “It’s just Washington, now. You two got names?”

“I’m Felix,” the second mercenary says. He jabs a thumb at his comrade. “And that’s Locus. And you, my friend…are _hired._ ”

* * *

 

His first bit of real human contact in three years is violent and comes in the form of a messy football tackle, arms wrapping around his waist and driving him hard into the ground.

Washington has been in the prison ship’s mess hall for less than two minutes, listening to Felix prattle on in some twisted version of a motivational speech when one of the other prisoners breaks out of line and launches himself at Wash. They’ve passed each other a thousand times—Washington is fairly certain he asked this very soldier to hand him the salt shaker at lunch two days ago—but he has apparently been waiting for the opportune moment to—

 _To try to kill me_ , Washington notes with a clinical detachment as the soldier climbs on top of him, draws his fist back, and slams it across Washington’s face so hard that he tastes blood.

“What the fucking _fuck?_ ” he hears Felix exclaim, but then the soldier hits him again and okay, _that_ hurt, that _really_ fucking hurt. Washington catches the third punch, twists, and puts pressure until he hears a _POP._ The soldier howls, and Wash uses the opportunity to shove him away and climb to his own feet.

“That was my last clean shirt,” he says, smoothing a hand pointlessly over the blood at his collar. A quick glance around the room shows that hardly anyone except for Felix and Locus are paying them the slightest bit of attention anymore.

“Don’t you _know_ who I am?” the soldier breathes. He’s clambered to his feet, but he’s cradling his wrist and looking as if he’s torn between fury and hurt feelings.

“Should I?”

“Perhaps not,” comes a voice from behind him, smooth as silk, and Washington feels his skin crawl and bunch until he’s drawing his shoulders up nearly to his ears. He turns to see the Counselor breaking away from the ranks as well, to glance between Washington and the soldier who is _apparently_ his unknown arch-nemesis. “You have met before, but have never seen each other’s faces.”

“ _You_ know me, though,” Washington says, directly to the soldier. He looks at him a bit more closely: the short cropped hair, the tattoos, the scarred face. There’s nothing about him that suggests this man is familiar.

“I know _everything_ about you, _Freelancer_ ,” the man spits. “I know about _all_ of you. Your call signs. Your armor. Even your faces. You took _everything_ from me—my life—my team—”

“Can we wrap this tragic backstory bit up?” Felix snaps. “I’m sure you’ve been rehearsing this for a long time, but we’re on a bit of a timetable here, pal.”

Washington tries to control the way his fingers twitch when the Counselor speaks again. “Agent Washington, it’s possible that you may not remember this _particular_ mission, but during your time in Freelancer, you were part of a mission to recover what we called the sarcophagus from Ch—”

“Charon Industries. I remember.” Washington says shortly. “I _remember_. And it’s just _Washington_ now. You can drop the Agent.”

“Of course,” the Counselor says. “This man here is—”

“I don’t need you to speak for me,” the soldier snaps, and Washington feels something in him roar in approval at the man’s words. He turns to Washington. “You can call me Sharkface.”

Felix snorts. “Really? _That’s_ what you’re going with?”

“You killed my family,” Sharkface spits. “They’re _dead,_ because of you.”

“It sounds that way.”

“You—how can you—”

“Look, if it makes you feel any better, I got what was coming to me. My f—my team is all dead, too.” Washington smiles at him, a wry, bitter twist of his lips. “Oh, and? Bonus points for the two years I spent in a psych ward, and the _three_ I spent on this prison ship.”

Something shifts in Sharkface’s expression, something rather pleased, but before Washington can interpret it the Counselor is speaking _, again._ “Agent Washington—”

“It’s _Washington—”_

“If I may—your team is not entirely dead. Agent Carolina is, in fact, alive and well, and fighting with the very people you are about to oppose.”

“So I’ve heard,” Washington says tersely.

The Counselor tilts his head in a frown. “You…do not believe this to be true?”

Washington snorts. “I’ll believe it when I see it. I know Carolina—”

_\--Triazaolm you react badly to Triazalom—_

_\--you were cute as a blonde but I think red is your true color—_

“I…I know her.” He gives his head a hard shake. “If she’s alive, I’ll know it when I see it.”

* * *

 

She’s alive.

He knows it the second he sees her move in person, a blur of grace and deadly speed, her body twisting and arcing through a butterfly kick across the battlefield from him. “Pay the fuck attention!” Sharkface hollers over the comms, as Washington hesitates a moment too long and a bullet whizzes past his visor.

Washington winces as the feedback pitches, and gives his helmet a firm pat. His armor sucks. It’s his own goddamn fault for taking so long to choose it—he’d reached instinctively for the first grey armor he’d seen in the salvaged pile that Felix and Locus had dumped in front of them, but found himself hesitating inexplicably over the aqua armor. _Carolina,_ he’d told himself uncertainly. He had Carolina on the brain, was all. There was no reason he should want aqua armor—he didn’t even _like_ the stupid color—

_-aqua and steel and yellow mixed together on the floor—_

_\--it’s not teal Jesus Christ Grif how many times do I have to tell you it’s aqua—_

In the end, Wash had chosen grey armor with aqua accents. It was a ridiculous decision, but no one questioned him on it. No one gave a fuck what armor he wore, or what he did at all, really. All he had to do was fight, and kill. He could do that. It didn’t matter.

Carolina doesn’t matter either, and neither do the sim troopers fanned out around her. Wash ducks into an alcove and reloads his rifle, trying and failing not to watch them. _They move like magnets_ , he realizes. Magnets, tied together with little bits of red rope and steel. They fan out and regroup, flit away and come back, always sensing when each other was in danger, saving each other’s lives time and time again, half by accident and half by deadly precision.

 _The cavalry._ He thinks of the Warthog smashing through the wall, and the Pelican dropping into the snow, and

_—and whiskey and birthday cake and if you want to apologize just do it and what does it look like I’m doing I’m giving you a massage and you’re not broken and you do deserve to be played with—_

Something shudders in his head, hard, and Wash presses himself deeper into the alcove to suck in an uneven breath. He needs to get a grip.

“You need to get a grip, Freelancer!” Felix yells in his ear, and Wash grits his teeth and charges into the fray.

He’s shaken, shaken from his musings on Carolina and the sim troopers. It isn’t until much later, after they’ve lost the battle and a good chunk of the men fighting with them, after the blood and the gunfire, when Felix is pacing and yelling, that Wash names the feeling he’d felt when watching the Reds and Blues move together. _Nostalgia._ Nostalgia, and jealously. Jealousy, sure, he can see that. Nostalgia? Impossible, because nostalgia implied that he’d had it, and he’d never had anything like that, not in Basic, not before the military, not even in Freelancer—

_\--oh come on Wash, I’m pretty sure we can trust you…I mean, we are friends—_

“What did you just say?”

Wash blinks to see the counselor looming large in his vision. “Huh?”

“Friends,” the Counselor says slowly. “You said…friends.”

“No I didn’t."

“Perhaps,” says the Counselor, “Agent Washington should sit out the next mission. He does appear to be a bit overworked.”

“Agreed,” Locus says shortly, sweeping passed him. “Agent Washington, take the day off.”

 _How dare he,_ Washington thinks dispassionately, watching out of the corner of his eye as the Counselor moves away. 

Not _nearly_ far enough.

* * *

 

Washington gets his chance shortly after the next mission, when it’s just him and Sharkface in a room with Locus and Felix. The four of them have somehow become the leaders of the pirates, without anyone really discussing it. The Counselor walks into the room and stands next to Washington, opens his mouth, and suddenly Washington realizes just how comfortable the man is standing next to him, as if he doesn’t even realize what he _did._

It would be easy, _too_ easy, to take his knife and draw it across his throat. Washington takes a moment to envision the moment in minute detail—the blood, the glazed eyes, the gurgling. It would be so easy and still he hesitates. The moment should be bigger—it should be so much bigger for what he did—

_\--Wash, it sounds to me as if you were psychologically abused—_

The easiest thing that he could do becomes the easiest thing that he’s done, as Wash draws his knife, steps in swiftly, and draws it across the Counselor’s throat without a word.

They all fall silent as the Counselor hits his knees, and then the ground, before going still forever.

“Feel better?” Felix snarks, after a long moment of silence during which they all watch the Counselor’s blood pool around him.

Washington leans down, wiping the blade off carefully on the Counselor’s shirt. The muscles in his face feel funny, and he does not hide the smile that bursts out as he stands. It’s the truest smile he’s felt in years. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “Yeah. I really, _really_ fucking do.”

* * *

Word of the Counselor’s death spreads quickly, though no one seems to care beyond giving Washington an even wider berth. They thought he was crazy. There was a time when Washington would’ve fought against this label, would’ve tried his best to present himself as reasonable and sane, but now, he pulls it around himself like a cloak. Let them think he’s crazy, unhinged, inches away from snapping and killing them all. It isn’t far from the truth.

“So, what’s your _deal?_ Are you gonna snap and kill us all?”

Washington turns away from the mission plans he was musing over to see Felix leaning against the doorframe. “What?”

“I mean, not that I really care that you offed the Counselor, but…” Felix shrugs. “He _was_ giving us some pretty useful information on Agent Carolina that we now aren’t getting.”

“Don’t worry about that. What do you want to know?”

“About what?”

“ _About Agent Carolina,_ ” Washington emphasizes. He sincerely hopes Felix can hear the eye roll in his voice. “We worked on the same team for years. I worked with the sim troopers for a bit, too. You already know all of this.”

“Oh, well, you’ll forgive us for not taking tactical advice from the most unhinged man on this goddamned ship.”

“Let me engage them.” Washington turns to face Felix fully, folding his arms across his chest. “On the next mission. I understand the way they fight together, and I think I can use it—

_—two blurs of aqua, new and what’s left of the old—_

_—Tucker’s back is pressed to his own and they spin together like points on a compass—_

“See, _that_.” Felix straightens, pointing an accusing finger at him. “ _What_ is that about?”

Washington realizes too late that he’s half bent over the nearby console, one hand pressed to the side of his helmet. He straightens hastily. “It’s nothing. Headaches.”

“Whatever,” Felix says. “Look, if you can’t keep it together—”

“I can.” Washington forces his voice to sound casual. “Just—just let me engage them. Alright?”

He holds his breath while Felix glares at him, unsure of why this seems so vitally important. It doesn’t matter who kills the sim troopers as long as _someone_ kills the sim troopers—it doesn’t _have_ to be him—he has nothing to say to them, nothing at all. He has even less to say to Carolina. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. _It doesn’t_ —

“Fine,” Felix says. “ _Fine._ Jesus Christ. Kill all the sim troopers, or maybe just some of them—I don’t care. Just don’t fuck this up, alright?”

“I won’t,” Washington says, heart racing in his chest. “I _won’t_.”

* * *

 

He fucks it up the second he comes face to face with Carolina.

It isn’t seeing her move again up close that gets him—although the feeling is gut-wrenching and exhilarating and devastating all at once. It’s the way that Washington hesitates, and she doesn’t, because she _doesn’t recognize him_.

They almost slam right into each other when rounding the same corner. Washington is half a second too late in getting his battle rifle back up to bear. Carolina isn’t. Her gun is back up in his face, finger on the trigger, and all he can think to do is blurt, “Carolina?”

There is the slightest waiver in her gun arm, a moment of uncertainty, but she does not lower the gun, and half a second later there’s a blue shimmer by her shoulder before a little A.I. holo-projection winks into life, looks at him, and says, “Wash?”

“You,” Washington says blankly. Felix and Locus were right. They were _right_. This is Carolina, and this is Epsilon, which means—

He _laughs._ It starts as a snicker and turns into a howl and once he starts, he can’t stop. He laughs so hard that he drops his rifle and bends over to clutch at his abdomen. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry—” he gasps, waving a hand at Carolina, who has half lowered her guns in favor of staring at him. “Sorry—it’s just—you—you went and got him the Archives, didn’t you? You went and got him— _all_ of you—and—and—”

His voice breaks into laughter again, and he clutches at the rock wall next to him for support. “Oh, man,” he gets out between giggles. “Ohhhhh man. I love it, I _love_ it—”

“Wash,” she says slowly, and takes the smallest of steps towards him before another voice breaks in.

“Uhhh…what the fuck?”

Wash half turns to see the Red sim troopers behind him, red and maroon and yellow and pink—the pink one, who _definitely_ should not be there because Wash _killed_ him. “I shot you,” he says conversationally. “You should be dead.”

And then he starts laughing _again_ because _why wouldn’t the pink one be alive_ , why wouldn’t they all team up to bust Epsilon out, why wouldn’t they all be standing here with Carolina like they were the best of friends?

“Sorry—sorry,” Wash gasps again. He fumbles with the seals on his helmet and drops into the ground, wiping at his eyes with the back of his wrist. “Sorry—it’s just, it’s _funny_.”

“Yeeeeeah, you’ve said that,” the orange one— _Grif_ , Wash remembers—says slowly. He glances at Carolina. “Honestly, I think we should kill him just to put him out of his misery.”

“Well maybe we should get _on_ that,” the maroon one hisses, “before he comes to his senses and _murders us all_ —”

“I don’t think he’s going to come to his senses anytime soon Simmons—I mean, _look_ at him—”

_\--are we intruding on some sort of lover’s quarrel that’s a hell of a way to ask someone for a threesome Agent Washington is that a holographic lock we are going to talk about our feelings—_

Washington’s vision actually blacks out this time, and he rests his head against the cool rock until it subsides. “That keeps happening,” he explains to Carolina and the sim troopers. “That keeps—keeps happening.”

“What keeps happening?” Simmons asks nervously.

_—we've got a certain way of doing things around here, and that way includes baking birthday cakes out of ration bars and taking the time to spray paint the killer Freelancer's shoulder pads yellow—_

“That,” Wash says, pointing helpfully at his head. “ _That_. I think I’m going crazy.”

“Son, you ain’t kidding,” the red one grunts. Colonel, or General, or something ridiculous— _Sarge,_ that was it. “You’ve gone loonier than a bowl of fruit loops.” He glances over at Carolina, who still hasn’t said a word. “It wouldn’t even be _fun_ to kill him when he’s like this—”

The _RATTATTAT_ of heavy machine gun fire cuts off Sarge’s words, and they all scatter. By the time Wash looks up, dazed, they’re gone, and Locus is inches from his helmet. “ _Focus_ , Agent Washington.”

“It’s just Wash,” he says, then blinks. “I mean—I meant— _Washington_ , not—”

But Locus is already gone, leaving Wash scrambling for his rifle and his helmet, steel with the aqua stripe painted down the center. He stares at it for a second too long before jamming on his head to hear Felix in the middle of a full blown freak-out.

“— _said_ you could _handle_ it, what the fucking fuck was that bullshit! You _had_ them! You had them _right there_ and you—”

Wash mutes the radio with a racing heart, stumbling out from behind the rock wall where he’s been posted up. He almost runs into someone again—one of the blue simulation troopers this time, one whose name he doesn’t have to struggle to remember. “Caboose,” he says in surprise.

“Agent Washington!” Caboose yells, positively delighted. He points at Wash’s shoulder pads. “You are blue now, instead of yellow! Does that mean you would like to join Blue Team after all?”

“I, uh—”

“Caboose, _move away from him_.”

Something tightens in Wash’s chest as he turns to see the other Blue sim trooper behind him, rifle pointing at Wash. Wash keeps his own rifle up as well, as the trooper begins to circle slowly.

“Hey asshole,” he snaps. “Drop your fucking gun before I blow your brains out.”

Wash doesn’t drop his gun. He keeps it trained on the sim trooper as he keeps circling until he’s placed himself between Wash and Caboose. “Tucker,” he says, after a moment of straining to remember.

“Yeah, congratu—wait, how do you know my name?”

Wash frowns a little. “I—”

_\--She raises her gun to Tucker and there is no decision to make at all. There are only the memories, lined up in their neat little boxes inside his head. “Don’t…do that.”_

_“Wash…what are you doing?”_

_“Protecting my friends. Now lower the weapon.”_

“—don’t know,” he gasps. “I don’t know, I _don’t know,_ I—”

“Tucker, I don’t think Washington is feeling very well,” Caboose whispers loudly from over Tucker’s shoulder.

“Good.” Tucker readjusts his grip on his rifle. “He’s gonna be feeling even worse in about two seconds when I put a bullet through his—

_\--It’s the first real hug he’s had in years and he should pull away, but he can’t and the three of them stand there in a messy embrace--_

_"This is for science.”_

_"What?"_

_"It's called oxytocin. The chemical your brain releases. Oxytocin."_

_"I think you're saying it wrong.”_

_"I'm not saying it wrong, Caboose."_

Washington stumbles forward, his vision doubling, and Tucker shoves his gun in Washington’s face. “Don’t take another fucking step—”

There’s a flash of lightning and a boom of thunder so loud that Wash thinks for a moment Tucker has shot him. Something arcs in the air between them and falls softly at their feet. They all glance down as the rain begins to fall, at the small black—

“GRENADE!” Tucker yells, and they all dive out of the way. Washington flattens himself to the ground, arms wrapped around his head as the explosion rattles the ground and blows a hole in the wall of the nearest building.

Washington rolls out of the drive, rifle up to aim at Tucker. The rain falls heavy down his visor now, and Washington tosses his head in annoyance. _Windshield wipers, that’s what these helmets need_ , he thinks absently as his finger starts to tighten on the trigger. He’s always hated the rain—

_\--He reaches for the bar of soap that Jackson left sitting on the ledge, and scrubs every inch of his body. The water pulls his memories to the surface, and he thinks: I did. I did like to swim. Me. His mind settles, and he thinks of nothing except the water. Of nothing except the rain. Of nothing except the drain running clean._

**_No._ **

Wash lowers his rifle, putting a hand up. “Tucker…wait, _wait_.”

Tucker is so surprised at the absurdity of his action that he actually does stop. “What the fucking—”

 _\--“I like the rain, though. I know_ I _like the rain.”--_

The rifle falls from his hands with a soft thump. “This isn’t right,” he says, and then, louder. “This isn’t _right_.”

Tucker is staring at him, a bewildered tilt to his helmet, but he isn’t shooting. He _isn’t shooting._ “Dude—”

  

_\--“Dude. Go play.”_

_Wash jumps and turns to look at Tucker, flustered. “What? Oh. I just—we should go.”_

_“No, no, really!” There’s something about the way Tucker is holding himself—it’s so still, as if the very air around them is made up of the thinnest glass. “You, just. You look like you want to feel the rain, is all. You—you like the rain, right? Go on, it hasn’t rained in forever. I’ll hold your helmet.”_  

“This isn’t….it isn’t real, it isn’t…”

Washington takes his helmet off once more, letting it fall next to his rifle. He inhales deep, breathing in the rain, and it’s so familiar and soothing that it takes him a few heartbeats to realize that he can’t actually smell it.

He can’t even _feel_ it on his _face._

 _\--“I didn’t do the stupid heroic thing, see? I called you guys”--_

Wash surges forward, towards Tucker and Caboose, but even as he reaches for them _they disappear between his hands like smoke, misting up in the rain._

“Uh…Locus?” 

“What?” 

“…I think he’s waking up.” 

“ _What?_ That’s impossible. You said it was _impossible_ once we passed the—”

 _Wash whirls around in circles, trying to catch where the voices are coming from—they sound as if they are right in his ear, but he is alone, utterly alone on this rainy battlefield, this battlefield that isn’t real._

_He cannot smell the rain and it_ isn’t real _._

 _Wash closes his eyes and brings the world crashing down around him._

_The adrenaline from one world carries over into the next, and Wash’s eyes snap open, his body jolting to a sit—_

He doesn’t quite make it to a full sit. There’s a sharp, lancing pain in his chest and suddenly he is choking, gagging on something blocking his airway. Wash clutches at his chest and neck as some dim part of his brain catalogues his surroundings— _hospital, no restraints, green and grey and orange, bright lights, hospital, hospital, hospital._ There’s an IV in his arm and he still can’t _breathe_ —

Wash claws frantically at his face and finds, at last, the cause of his troubled breathing. There’s something over his mouth and down his throat, something big and plastic and—

There are unarmored hands grasping at his wrists and Wash turns his attention to that instead. He rips the IV out of his arm, pulls the offender close, and stabs the needle into the side of his neck. His mind is starting to go loopy and dizzy from lack of oxygen, and he fastens his hands around the plastic over his mouth and pulls hard.

 _A breathing tube,_ he realizes as he’s yanking it out. A violated sort of horror swoops through him, and he barely registers the burning ache in his throat and his chest as he hurls the breathing tube away, tumbles out of his hospital bed, and vomits all over the floor and himself. There’s a pinch in his abdomen and everything feels wet, his face and his mouth and his thighs, and none of it makes sense because there was no rain, it wasn’t real, it _wasn’t real_ —

 _PUT YOUR BACK TO A WALL,_ some dim memory screams at him—Carolina’s voice, or Maine’s, or maybe even his own—Wash doesn’t question it, just scrambles until he can press his back to a wall and get a sense of his surroundings, of the exits and the enemies around him.

He’s no sooner found a wall and pressed his shaking shoulders to it when there’s an armored hand wrapping around his throat, lifting him clear off the ground and slamming him back into the wall. Wash fights against the hold, thrashing hard, but his muscles are weak and slow from lying in a hospital bed for—

 _How long?_ Wash thinks dizzily as Felix’s face fills his vision. _How long?_

“I don’t want to say I told you so, but…” Felix casts a glance over his shoulder, and Wash can see Locus there, hovering in the background with his arms folded over his chest. “Well. I _did_ tell you so.”

“Unfortunate,” Locus growls, sounding, Wash notes hysterically, more than a little pissed off about it. He turns his attention to the man whom Wash just sent crashing to the ground. “You assured us that once Agent Washington had been kept under for a week or more, the odds of him waking up were—”

“Slim,” the medic gasps, massaging the side of his neck where Wash had stabbed the IV. “I said they were _slim_ , you crazy fucker, not impossible—I told you people I wasn’t a fucking _brain_ surgeon—”

“Told you so,” Felix sings again. “I _did_ tell them so,” he says to Wash, dropping his voice conspiratorially.

Wash pulls hard at Felix’s hand around his throat, but his grip does not give. “What— _what_ …”

He can’t get out any more than that. His throat is positively _aching_ , from Felix’s hand and the feeding tube and over a week without using his voice. Right now it feels as if he’ll never be able to talk again.

Felix seems to understand, though. “Oh, what did we _do_ to you?” He shrugs carelessly. “Crossed a wire here, crossed a wire there, fucked around with some of those alternate reality meds we found in a closet and _boom_ —we almost had you. Locus here was really hoping we could get you around to our side, but…oh well, you win some, you lose some, am I right?”

“No matter.”

Wash freezes momentarily as someone new speaks, their voice smooth as silk, a voice that he would know anywhere, but it was impossible, impossible, _impossible_. He cranes his neck to see, but the speaker is in a corner of the room where Wash’s eyes don’t reach. He’s fading now, fading fast, struggling to keep his eyes open and keep Felix’s helmeted face focused in his eyes.

“This was only phase one of the process,” the voice continues. “Remember, gentleman. We are constructing something of a…win-win situation for ourselves here. Even if Agent Washington’s friends _did_ manage to rescue him, it will only be to our benefit.”

Felix tilts his head at Wash critically. “Seems like an awful lot of work for one fucking soldier.”

“Think of it as…removing the crucial piece from a tower of blocks.”

“Like Jenga,” the medic mumbles from the floor. “You know, that game where you build a tower of blocks and—”

“I know what _Jenga_ is,” Felix snaps. “Jesus Christ, if I have to listen to one more metaphor from any of you, I might _actually_ kill myself.”

“Precisely like Jenga.” The voice pauses. “We have removed one of the blocks from their Jenga tower, and even if they were to steal it back from us…they would soon find that it no longer fit in its place in the tower."

The voice burrows its way into his skull, between every crack and crevice in his brain, dragging memories out of their boxes and to the forefront of his mind--

_\--so you would say you have overwhelming feelings of anger and a need for revenge—_

_It can’t be him,_ Wash thinks. _It can’t be, he can’t be here, I killed him, I killed him myself…_

 _Did you?_ Another part of his mind whispers. _Did you really?_

**_Wait, wait, wait._ **

Wash squeezes his eyes shut and slams his thoughts to a halt, blocking out the voices swimming around him. He tries to gather up the memories, to scoop them away into their neat little boxes but there are _more_ now, there are too many and _he can’t do this again_ —he’s running out of boxes, he’s running out of _colors_ —

He tries to stave off the panic but it sets in anyway, crawling into his brain and scattering the memories to the wind once more. Wash opens his eyes to see all of them looking at him, and he realizes he must have said at least part of that out loud.

Locus makes an aggravated noise somewhere where Wash can’t see. “He’s barely coherent.”

“Because he’s fucking _losing it._ That’s a good thing, remember?” Felix turns back to Wash and pats the side of his face with one hand, the other tightening around his throat. “Forget giving them back a Jenga block, right Wash? If they get anything back at all it’ll be a pile of matchsticks.”

The speaker clears his throat. “Felix, if you wouldn’t mind?”

Felix sighs, gesturing a hand out behind him. “Someone get me a fucking sedative.”

“No,” Wash mumbles, stirring once more. “ _No_ —”

The medic slaps a syringe into Felix’s open palm. Wash struggles even as Felix brings the needle up to Wash’s neck and holds it there. “It’ll be a real _delight,”_ he whispers, “to see you burn your precious sim troopers to the ground, since all you want is to keep them so very safe. I’m gonna _relish_ this fallout.”

Wash feels a hard pinch before his body goes slack and his thoughts grow sluggish, and then he feels nothing, nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> meanwhile, i am SETTING MYSELF ON FIRE AS WE SPEAK.
> 
> this chapter inspired in part by [this post](http://prisoner619b.tumblr.com/post/129014204126/do-you-ever-think-about-how-if-tucker-didnt-think), [this art](http://powerfulpomegranate.tumblr.com/post/149013471890/bad-guy-wash-based-off-of-this-post), and the delightful mind of [my beta](http://hammeredpaint.tumblr.com).


	24. Chapter 24

**day one.**

This is how he awakens: the sun, blood red across his eyes, and Wash, sighing in his sleep on Tucker’s right.

It’s how he’s woken for so many mornings now that Tucker’s squinting against the sun before he realizes that it isn’t there, because the angle is all wrong. He’s reaching for Wash, too—slowly, quietly, so as not to wake him.

Wash _thinks_ that he’s the one who wakes first every morning. Wash is wrong, but Tucker would never admit it in a thousand years. The few times that Wash does catch Tucker awake first, he frowns and squints at the clock and tells Tucker that he should’ve woken up him ages ago, that it was getting late, and Tucker would roll his eyes and say _Jesus Christ, it’s barely oh six hundred_ and Wash would huff and say _still, we have to get going,_ and Tucker would watch him get dressed or pull him back down for quickie and Wash would follow.

What Tucker _doesn’t_ say is that, short of someone setting the base on fire, he wouldn’t wake Wash out of a deep, dreamless sleep in a million years. What he _doesn’t_ say is that he really, really likes how Wash’s arms tighten around him whenever Tucker shifts slightly. What he _doesn’t_ say is that when he looks at Wash like that, sleeping in the morning light, he feels—

_He feels—_

Tucker’s arm falls across an empty mattress and his eyes shoot open. This is wrong. He’s cold and his back is stiff and the light in the room is coming from the wrong angle and he’s still in his Kevlar suit and Wash _isn’t here._

“Wash,” he mutters. Tucker jolts to his feet so fast that the blood rushes to his head. He places a steadying hand back on the mattress and lets the black ground him, uses it to think.

“Tucker?”

Tucker blinks the stars from his eyes and swings around to look at Caboose, who is sitting up in bed and rubbing at a thick bandage wrapped around his forehead. Hospital. They’re in a hospital.

Caboose continues to stare at him and Tucker tries to focus. He doesn’t usually wake up so disoriented, but everything is slow and sluggish and there’s something screaming at him, something telling him that—

“They’ve got Wash,” he says out loud, and the memories slam back into him in horrific clarity. “ _They’ve got Wash._ ”

_Freckles, shake!_

Wash’s voice cuts clear across his mind and something twists hard in Tucker’s chest. They had Wash, _again_ —this was just like last time except it _wasn’t,_ because Wash was alone and because he hadn’t sacrificed himself like some big dumb hero this time; he had called for his team, he had called for _Tucker_ and Tucker hadn’t gotten there in time—

He starts snapping on his armor, frantic and hurried. His movements are so erratic that he spends nearly thirty seconds trying to put his boot on the wrong foot before he gets a grip. Once every piece of armor is on its proper appendage, he grabs his sword and his rifle and makes for the door.

“Ummmm, Tucker. Where are you going?”

“I’m going to get Wash,” Tucker says.

“Oh,” Caboose says, and throws back his covers. “Well, then. I’m coming with you.”

“Caboose…” Tucker winces as Caboose sways. “C’mon, don’t be an idiot—”

“Ohhh, I think _not!_ ”

Tucker turns as Dr. Grey sweeps through the door and pushes Caboose gently back onto the bed, tugging the blankets up around his waist. “Now, _really._ I am _all_ for a dramatic rescue mission but you, my friend, are not up to it quite yet.” She glances disapprovingly at Tucker. “And neither are _you_. You hardly slept a single wink last night!”

“How would you know?” Tucker snaps, one hand still on the infirmary door.

“Because I heard you, silly,” she says calmly.

That gives Tucker pause. “Heard me….doing what?”

“Calling for Wash.”

It’s a few seconds before Tucker can speak, and when he does, he hardly recognizes the cadence of his voice. “Keep an eye on him, will you?” He nods his head at Caboose.

Dr. Grey frowns. “Captain Tucker—”

But Tucker’s gone, yanking the door open and marching out into the hallway. He makes it a grand total of ten steps before his progress is waylaid by no less than three cadets and four feds: Britton, Jensen, Kennedy, and _all_ of the Fed captains.

“Jesus Christ,” Tucker snaps, as they melt out of the shadows and block his path.

“ _There_ you are,” Perry says. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“Oh,” Tucker says, for lack of any other real way to respond to that. “Why?”

“Because we want to know what the plan is!” Jensen says. She’s got her helmet on but Tucker can picture all too-well just how wide those big eyes are behind her glasses.

“The plan?”

“The plan to rescue Agent Washington!”

“That’s what I’m about to go find out,” Tucker says darkly, and continues on his way.

Britton literally body blocks him, bouncing off of Tucker’s chest and leaning back to glare up at him. “You mean _we’re_ going to find out.”

“She’s been practicing that line all morning,” Fitz mutters. “Like, _literally_ all—”

“Shut _up_ , Fitz! I have not!”

“Alright, _stop,_ ” Tucker says. He glances pointedly at Britton’s shortened arm. She’s done something to the armor so that it caps and seals right at the bicep, and the amputation is more obvious than ever. “Yeah, Wash is going to kill me—and you—if you go charging off on a rescue mission with that arm.”

“I can still fly!” she says fiercely. “I can! Tell him Jensen!”

“She can!” Jensen agrees. “We’ve been practicing on the one of the out of commission Pelicans—I rewired it so that she can do everything with one arm until she gets a prosthetic!”

“I can do it, I _swear!_ ” Britton chimes back in. “It took some trial and error, but—”

“You know what, why don’t we just put a pin in the arm thing,” Tucker says hastily. He makes a mental note to not be around when someone explains to Kimball just what the cadets have done to one of their out of commission Pelicans. “Look, does anyone know where Kimball or Doyle are? Or, no, Carolina? She’s probably gonna be more useful right now.”

They all glance at Ali, who puts a hand up to his helmet. “They’re in the landing bay,” he says. “Andersmith’s got a tail on them.”

The landing bay. Good. That could only mean that a plan was in action. Tucker hastens forward, not bothering to protest when they all surge forward to follow him. “You’ve got a _tail_ on them?” he asks.

“Of course,” Britton says importantly. “We don’t want to miss any information that we might need!”

“Right….”

Their talk continues as they continue towards the landing bay, but Tucker is barely aware of it. He keeps up a steadying stream of “uh huh” “right” “yeah” and it isn’t until they’re almost there at he realizes he’s still doing it even though the conversation has stopped.

Tucker glances around to see them all staring at him. Ali throws an arm out to stop Tucker’s progress and when he speaks, Tucker can hear the frown in his voice. “Tucker—listen—you gotta pull your shit together, man. If you go in there and act all like, _irrational_ —”

Tucker shrugs him off impatiently, charging through to the landing bay. He should have been there hours ago, shouldn’t have bothered trying to sleep. He rounds the corner to see several Pelicans ready and waiting for them, as well as a fully equipped task force of all their best soldiers—

Or he _doesn’t._ Tucker actually stops and gives his head a little shake at the sight that greets him. Instead of the Pelicans ready to go, instead of their best soldiers, he sees only Carolina and Kimball, sitting on one of the benches. Carolina has her elbow on her knee and her head resting in her hand, and Kimball has her tilted so closely forward that their heads are almost touching. They both glance up at the sound of Tucker entering the room, the cadets and Feds filtering in behind him.

Tucker glances around the landing bay one more time—nope, not a single Pelican ready, _not a_ _single one_ —and is just getting ready to unload on them when a thought occurs to him. Stealth. Maybe wherever they were holding Wash required stealth to get to, as opposed to a whole army. Or something. “So what’s the plan?”

Kimball looks at Carolina. Looks at Tucker. Looks at the group of soldiers clustered behind him. “Tucker. What is this?”

“This,” Kennedy says, “is Agent Washington’s rescue team.”

There’s a clacking sound, and Tucker hears Fitz tut. “Did you just cock your shotgun for dramatic effect?”

“I thought it was pretty cool,” Patil says.

“Yeah, you _would_ …”

“Would you guys stop? They’re never gonna take us seriously if you don’t—”

“They’re not gonna take us seriously _anyway_ —”

“Not with _that_ attitude! Come _on_ , guys—”

Kimball is leveling a glare so fierce at him that Tucker thinks it might burn a hole in her visor. “Look, _I_ didn’t bring them here,” he says impatiently. “I just wanna know what the plan is to go get Wash.”

“Tucker…” Kimball sighs, glancing at Carolina. “Look—”

“ _Don’t,_ ” Tucker says, alarmed. “Don’t—don’t tell me that we have to fucking _wait_ or some shit—”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Kimball says calmly. “What I’m _saying_ is that we need to be smart about this.”

“We don’t have time to be smart about it!” Tucker says. “We don’t have much time here at _all_ —”

“You don’t know that,” she snaps. “And I don’t want anyone else falling into a trap because we were stupid about this!”

Tucker forces himself to take a breath. “Neither do I,” he says, keeping his voice low and even. “I just…. _look,_ I just want to know what the plan is. Do we have _any_ idea where Wash is?”

“None,” Epsilon says. He pops up over Carolina’s shoulder. “If he still had his radio in his helmet I’d be able to track it, but…well, we all saw what they did to that.”

“Isn’t there anything else you can track?” Tucker asks desperately. “There’s all kinds of crazy shit in our suits—isn’t there like, a chip, or…”

“His suit’s completely offline,” Epsilon says, “so there’s not even a chance of me finding his GPS system.”

“What about the Pelican?” Britton asks, nudging her way up closer to Tucker. “Can you track the bird they took him away in?”

“You can’t just track a Pelican,” Fitz says. "Not like _that_."

“Um, excuse you, are you a pilot?”

“No, and neither are _you_ —”

“I am too!”

“She’s the best pilot this army’s got!”

“Thanks for that astute analysis, _Jensen_ —”

“Britton’s right,” Epsilon interjects. “She’s right, but…look, in order to do that I’d have to track the radio signal, which won’t work because--”

“Are we gonna understand a word of this?” Tucker asks, irritated.  Epsilon glares at him.

“We need to do this the old-fashioned way,” Carolina says. “Human bodies, gathering intel. We send out several small teams to where we think there may be activity, or where there’s been activity in the past.”

“But they may not even be on this planet anymore,” Tucker says desperately. “They could be _anywhere._ ”

Carolina sighs. “I know. I _know_ , but…we have to start somewhere.” She looks at him. “This isn’t a smash and grab, Tucker. Not yet. When it is? We’ll make them regret ever so much as looking in Wash’s direction.”

She’s right. Tucker _knows_ she’s right. It doesn’t stop him from wanting to scream. It doesn’t stop him from wanting to tear the planet apart with his bare hands. “Fine,” he says instead. “ _Fine._ Let’s….let’s get these stealth teams or whatever all set up, and then we leave tomorrow.” He glances at Kimball. “Right?”

“Right,” she says. “Tomorrow.”

**day two.**

Tomorrow arrives with a scream.

It slams in with no warning, a howling, burning thing that propels Tucker to his feet. He comes to his senses much more quickly now than he did yesterday. It is still dark, too dark to be dawn, and he is on the Pelican. He’d fallen asleep here last night, right there in the cockpit, wanting to get moving as soon as they could. Tomorrow, he’d chanted at himself. It was the only thing that kept him from flying off alone. _Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow._

Tomorrow is here and it is _burning_.

He hastens into the rest of his armor, stumbling out of the Pelican to get a closer look. The skyline is on fire, burning just outside their city walls, and he can hear the sound of grenades and rifles and _screaming_ —

Tucker lunges for the big red panic button in the landing bay, and the base is soon filled with the sounds of alarms. He takes off running towards the screams, heart thudding in his throat. He opens up the channel he shares with the other sim troopers. “Anyone know what the fuck’s going on?”

“We’re under attack!” Sarge hollers, sounding, Tucker notes, more gleeful than anything. “Cowboy up, boys! To the perimeter!”

“I’m already on the perimeter— _Sarge!_ ” Simmons now. His voice cracks on the last word, and Tucker winces as another _BOOM_ sounds, louder than the first. “Sir, what are you doing here, it isn’t even your shift!”

“I make m’own shifts, Simmons! Now cover me!”

There's a lot of confused yelling, and Tucker breaks into a sprint. He nearly crashes full-on into Perry, who speeds out of an adjacent hallway. They both skid to a halt, Perry’s hand shooting out to catch Tucker’s arm as he stumbles. He pulls Tucker along with him towards the source of the chaos.

Bodies. There are bodies on the ground. It’s the first thing Tucker registers as he and Perry emerge onto the outer walls of the base. There’d been a lot of eye-rolling when they’d all arrived in Armonia, at the fifteen-foot wall Doyle had constructed around the city but now, Tucker is grateful for it. The city was incredibly well-protected, enough that there were still a fair number of civilians living there. Tucker hopes they’d all had the sense to retreat to one of the underground shelters. He can see a whole section of the city under fire.

Perry curses under his breath as they take in the scene, then turns to Tucker. “We have to go out there!”

Tucker nods, following him to one of the exits into the city proper. Donut and Fitz come whipping around a corner, and Donut waves him off as they advance.

“No good! That way’s all plugged up!”

The four of them backtrack into a nearby alleyway, wincing as another _BOOM_ rocks the ground. “What the fuck is going on?” Tucker asks. He scans the skies for signs of enemy Pelicans, but there’s nothing—no Pelicans, no mercs, no space pirates.

“We’re under attack,” Fitz yells.

“Yeah, no shit!” Tucker cranes his neck out from behind the way, trying to get eyes on the enemy. Still nothing. “I meant _why?_ What do they want?”

Fitz shoots him a look. “They want to royally fuck up our shit! Does it matter? Let’s go kill some assholes! Hey—” He drops a hand on Tucker’s shoulder, leans in close. “Maybe we can get one of them to tell us where they’re keeping Wash.”

Tucker can get on board with that. They’ve no sooner inched their way out into the streets, pressed back to back in a reverse huddle, when there’s a whine overhead, a whine Tucker’s heard a thousand times. “Find cover!” he yells, but Fitz is already yanking him back and the four of them crouch down, arms over each other as there’s another _BOOM,_ far louder than the previous ones.

“That wasn’t a grenade,” Perry gasps as the world quiets. “That was a—”

“Bomb,” Fitz says, and he’s off and running before the rest of them can blink twice.

“Come on!” Tucker yells, and they follow him. The four of them dash towards the fire, and Tucker can hear the sounds of screams getting louder and louder. They finally run into some of the space pirates on the way, and there’s a brief but fierce firefight.

Fitz is once again the first on his feet, and they finally make it to the source of the bombing: a group of row homes, almost completely flattened. He turns back to the rest of them. “I see people alive down there! We need to—”

Tucker’s brain barely registers what happens next. There’s the loud _CRACK_ of a rifle as Fitz’s head snaps to the side and his body crumbles to the ground. Perry screams, a wordless howl, and it’s not until he’s running to Fitz’s side and shaking him that Tucker realizes that he’s dead. Tucker spins and to see a space pirate climbing weakly to his feet, rifle raised and pointing at them. Ali is faster, putting a bullet neatly through the pirate’s visor and leaving Tucker time to charge forward to where Perry is bending over Fitz’s body.

He yanks Perry back as another bullet sinks into the ground where he was just kneeling. Perry’s yelling, and so is Tucker, although he has no idea what either of them are saying—there are too many noises, and too many bodies, and too much fire, and Tucker pulls him back into the half-blown out shell of a garage as Donut covers them. Wash is gone and Fitz is dead and there are people out there dying and Tucker doesn’t know why, doesn’t know the reason for any of it and suddenly doesn’t _care,_ he just wants it to stop. They sink to the ground and stay there for minutes, or hours, or days, clutching so tightly to each other’s arm that Tucker can’t tell which one of them is shaking.

Perry makes it to his feet first and holds a hand out to Tucker. “Let’s go,” he says. His voice his thick with tears and he doesn’t even bother to hide it, and that’s important, Tucker thinks. Perry just watched one of his best friends die and he’s crying, but he’s still there, on his feet, holding a hand out to Tucker and that’s important.

Tucker takes it.

They go.

**day three.**

_Eighty-five, fifty-two, thirty-three._

Tucker repeats the numbers to himself over and over again until they don’t even sound like words anymore. Eighty-five, fifty-two, thirty-three. Eighty-five dead: fifty-two civilians and thirty-three soldiers. Dead.

The morning is chilly and quiet. It’s not quite raining, but there’s a fine layer of mist over everything: their visors, the buildings, the bodies. They gather the bodies and strip them of their armor, put all of the dog tags into a little box that Donut volunteers to keep watch over. The act takes nearly all day. They work in shifts, filtering in and out of the base, mechanic, silent. Tucker doesn’t realize he’s spent the better part of three shifts removing armor from the dead and piling it up until he feels a tug at his elbow and turns to see Ali. His helmet is off, tucked under his arm, dark eyes wide and unseeing, but he pulls at Tucker’s arm anyway. “Food,” he says. “C’mon.”

Tucker nods, and the two of them make their way inside the base, their progress halted by Palomo, standing in the doorway staring off into space. “Palomo,” Tucker says tiredly, “what the fuck are you doing?”

Palomo says nothing, just continues to stare off somewhere behind Tucker. He startles when Tucker puts a hand on his shoulder and gives him a little shake. “ _Palomo_. Jesus Christ.”

Now Palomo’s staring at _him_ with that same blank expression, and Tucker sighs. “You look like shit. Come on. We’re going to get food.”

He turns Palomo around and marches him into the main entranceway. They all falter slightly at the sight that greets them: there are soldiers seated all around the hallway, Feds and News alike staring off into space the same fashion as Palomo. Tucker can see Jensen and Prajapati wrapped so tightly around each other that he can barely tell whose limbs are whose, Matthews huddled in a corner with his head pressed into his knees, Caboose patting Andersmith on the arm, Britton with her head on Perry’s shoulder, her good hand clutched tightly in his. They are largely still and silent, and after a momentary hesitation, Tucker joins them, finding a free spot against the wall and pulling Palomo down with him. Ali wanders into the crowd and returns a few minutes later with some coffee and donuts.

“I think the war started with the first bombing,” Ali says after a while. “I mean. It started _way_ before that, but for most people, I think—they remember those bombs, first.”

“They were loud,” Palomo says absently, and they turn to him. “My headphones couldn’t drown them out.”

“It didn’t start there for me,” Ali continues, when Palomo offers nothing more. “When I—when I think of the beginning, I think of the—the pictures some of my students used to turn in. Paintings, drawings—they were all of the bombs. Their burned out houses. Bits of their families. Kids, you know? Just…kids.”

Tucker opens and closes his mouth several times, utterly at a loss for what to say. He finally settles on, “I didn’t know you were a teacher.”

“Wasn’t,” Ali says with a sigh. He rests his head back against the wall. “I didn’t get that far. TA’d a few classes to get through grad school. I liked it though…everything about it. The kids. The teaching. When they bombed the school, I…”

He trails off, and Tucker registers that he’s fiddling with something in his hands. Fitz’s dog tags. Perry had been wearing them all morning, and Tucker isn’t sure when he took them off. Even as he watches, Patil walks past them both and holds out his hand. Ali drops the dog tags into them without another word.

The day drags.

When they burn the bodies, they do not separate them, into soldier and civilian. “They all died together,” Kimball says. “They should…they should be together for this, too.”

The smoke rises high against the dying sun and Tucker cannot watch the bodies burn. He looks across the way and stares at Donut instead, the pink of his armor just visible through the smoke, box of dog tags clutched tightly in his arms. Tucker has nothing of Wash’s, he realizes suddenly: no dog tags, no piece of special clothing or jewelry, nothing. He can’t think of a single material item that Wash held dear. The things closest to his heart were intangible, fleeting things, misting and melting away in the smoke, leaving Tucker’s hands empty, and aching, and cold.

**day four.**

Day three bleeds into four and Tucker finds himself outside of Kimball’s office without even knowing how he ended up there. He’s just lifting his fist to knock, ready to raise all sorts of hell, when the sound of raised voices causes him to falter.

“—have done _everything_ you’ve asked!” someone is yelling. “And now I’m telling you what _I_ need, and you’re telling me that I can’t _go?_ ”

Carolina. Tucker’s heard her yell enough times to recognize her voice instantly, but there’s something different about it—some deeper, personal hurt seeping through her words.

“I’m trying to keep as many people _alive_ as I can. Including _you_ ,” Kimball responds. She isn’t full-on yelling like Carolina is, but her voice is tense and unhappy. “Do you think this is a coincidence that they hit us this hard right after they took Wash? That attack was deliberate and—”

“Of course it was deliberate!” Tucker jumps as he hears Carolina’s footsteps, but she isn’t leaving the room, only pacing. “They’re trying to scare us, Vanessa, and I’m not afraid of them!”

“Well, you _should_ be! How can you look at—”

“Do you have a death wish?!”

Tucker jumps, startled to find Grif standing next to him, incredulous. “Huh?”

Grif tuts, grabbing Tucker’s arm and yanking him down the hall. “They’ve been fighting all morning. You should’ve seen Carolina scream at Sarge after he tried to get in the middle of it. I think it’s best if you wait this one out.”

“I don’t…” Tucker yanks his arm out of Grif’s grasp. “We don’t have time to wait, Grif! Christ, it’s like no one here cares that Wash is still fucking gone and we haven’t heard _shit_ —”

“ _Hey!_ You aren’t the only one here who cares about Wash!” Grif actually sounds a little pissed off when he says it, which startles Tucker enough that he falters. “If you would just _talk_ to the rest of us instead of sulking like a big baby, you’d realize that!”

“I am talking to you,” Tucker says indignantly. “That’s all I’ve been doing, is trying to fucking talk to people!”

“No, it’s not!” Grif snaps. “You’re not talking to us! And don’t think we’ve noticed that you haven’t been sleeping, or eating—”

“Grif,” Tucker interrupts. He takes a breath, trying to fight down the hysteria bubbling up in his chest. “They’ve had him for four days—four days—do you know what they’re probably doing to him—”

“No, I don’t,” Grif says. “And neither do you.”

“Grif—” The hysteria wins this time, rushing up into his voice and choking out into his words. “It’s been _four days_ and we haven’t heard anything—he’s—what if he’s—what—”

“He’s not dead,” Grif says firmly.

“You don’t know that,” Tucker says. He can barely speak anymore. “You don’t. Know. That.”

“Yes, I do,” Grif says. “Listen. Kimball’s right. This isn’t a coincidence, that they nab Wash and then drop a fuckton of bombs on the city. They’re trying to shake us up. They’re trying to distract us from going after him.”

“Why?”

Grif shrugs. “Fuck if I know. But they’re planning something.”

“So…” Tucker considers, and takes a breath. “So what do we do?”

“We go after him.”

They turn to see Sarge approaching, glancing left and right as if he’s expecting to be followed. “Uh, _no_ ,” Grif says, alarmed. “I mean, yes, but—not like you’re suggesting.”

“And what am I suggesting?” Sarge says, indignant.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Grif says, “but whatever it is I’m sure it’s half-cocked and likely to get the three of us killed—”

“The three of us?” Tucker interrupts.

Grif falters and they stare each other down. “Yes, the three of us,” he snaps finally. “I cannot in good conscious let you go off on some stupid mission alone with no one but Sarge, can I?”

“It’s perfect,” Sarge says brightly. “We’ll need some bait, and who better than—”

“Oh my God, you’re starting already? Seriously?”

Tucker breathes, the hysteria sinking slowly back down through his throat, his chest, to settle in his stomach. “So. What’s the plan?”

**day five.**

The planet is silent and still.

They take a Pelican before first light. Grif flies them around the planet and Tucker and Sarge creep out to search while he waits. They find nothing. Nothing at the way stations. Nothing in the cities. Nothing in the skies. Nothing on the UNSC Tartarus. They do not run into a single enemy soldier.

They find nothing.

Tucker didn’t realize just how much hope he was holding out that their stupid, half-cocked plan would work until it doesn’t. Their stupid, half-cocked plans always work. He can’t look anyone in the eye when they return: not Carolina, not Kimball, not Caboose or any of the cadets. He can’t go to his room either, so he paces until he finds a quiet hallway where he can lay down, and rest his eyes for a moment, only for a moment.

**day six.**

It’s another misty morning and Tucker paces, for lack of anything better to do. He can’t stay still. It feels as if his very bones are alive inside his body, cracking into dust. Tucker finds himself wondering again if Wash is cold. They would have taken his armor long ago, and they almost _certainly_ took his Kevlar suit as well. _It’s too hard to cut through,_ Tucker thinks. He tries to backtrack, recoiling away from the thought, but his brain latches on, catching on the inevitable loss of Wash’s armor. Tucker wonders if they removed it on the Pelican, or back at their base. If he was unconscious when they took it away or if he fought them for it, piece by piece. And the Kevlar—it was fucking difficult trying to get someone out of their undersuit. He has taken Wash’s suit off himself enough times to know that it wasn’t easy going, that the suit always caught around Wash’s shoulders and his hips—

Something clenches hard in Tucker’s stomach at the thought, and he leans over, dropping his head between his knees and breathing deep. He closes his eyes and tries not to think of Wash’s suit getting caught around his shoulders under Felix’s hands.

Tries not to think.

_—tries not—_

**day seven.**

Tucker is so sick with worry and fear that he almost misses his weekly chat with Junior. “Oh, fuck,” he groans when he realizes he’s ten minutes late to the video call. Great. In addition to being a bad captain, a bad soldier, and a bad boyfriend, he’s now a bad father. Fantastic.

He runs into his room and slams the door behind him, sinking onto his bed and frantically loading up the video server on his datapad. “Come on, come on, come on you stupid fucking thing, _load_ …”

It loads. Tucker literally feels his shoulders wilt in relief as Junior’s face fills the screen. He’s chatting in Sangheilli at one of his friends standing next to him, and Tucker watches for a while, letting the familiar sound of Junior’s voice wash over him.

After a few moments, Junior catches sight of Tucker’s face in the screen. “Father,” he says, voice equal parts relief and delight. “You came.”

“Of course I came,” Tucker says. “Sorry I was late, little man. It’s…things are crazy here, right now.”

Junior nods in understanding and Tucker hates himself even more. “You are fighting a war. I understand.”

“Not an excuse,” Tucker mumbles. “So, uh. Go on, tell me about the game. Did you win?”

Junior’s face lights up, and Tucker pushes all of his thoughts and stress aside as he chatters away. He’s genuinely listening to what Junior has to say, and somewhere in the enthusiastic chatter, for just a moment, Tucker forgets himself. They talk for longer than usual, and the way Junior keeps pausing to eye him, Tucker thinks he might suspect that something is wrong. He does not ask, though, and for that Tucker is grateful.

When Junior logs off, the silence is sudden and suffocating. Tucker flops back onto his pillows before he realizes what he’s doing, before he catches the faintest whiff of Wash’s scent, spies just a few strands of Wash’s hair stuck to the sheets. He jolts away as if the bed has scalded him and starts yanking open drawers, pulling out fatigues and underwear and clean socks. Donut spies him just as he’s stumbling out of his room, takes one look at the clothes in Tucker’s arms, and sighs. “Come on. You can keep them in my room.”

Donut leads the way and Tucker follows, standing awkwardly in the doorway as Donut clears out a whole fucking drawer for him and folds Tucker’s clothes neatly into their new space. He makes a little mattress for Tucker on the floor and although it’s not okay, nothing is okay, Donut’s snores are soothing and familiar, and they lull him off to sleep.

**day eight.**

Tucker wakes up in a fit of panic, on the floor of Donut’s room, and fumbles for his datapad. He’d been dreaming, he thinks, dreaming of Wash, but his face hadn’t looked quite right and Tucker couldn’t figure out why. The freckles were wrong. Wash had a little cluster on one of his temples, and Tucker suddenly couldn’t remember which side they were on. He’d thought it was the right, but what if it wasn’t, what if it was the left?

He can’t be forgetting this. It’s only day eight and he can’t be forgetting so soon, because what does that mean for day eighteen? What does that mean for day thirty? What does—

Tucker loads up his datapad and swipes frantically through his camera roll until he finds what he was looking for: those stupid selfies he’d taken with Wash in the day of the training room. He hadn’t been able to look at them until now, but it’s important, so very important, that he remember what side the cluster of freckles were on.

The right. Those ridiculous freckles were on the right temple. Tucker exhales in shaky relief, leaning back down on the floor. The right.

**day nine.**

Carolina and her recon teams have found nothing, nothing at all. Tucker was pulled off of recon days ago but he still hovers, still listens on the radio, still waits. Nothing. Carolina’s anger at the lack of results is a constant, simmering thing, and one day Tucker pauses on his way to the mess hall, unsure if he's actually seeing this.

Prajapati is standing dead center, helmet at her feet, leaning forward as if into a stiff wind and shouting at Carolina. Her helmet is off as well and there is a small crowd beginning to gather.

"--can't _believe_  you just expect us to run fucking  _laps_  like we're robots or whatever bullshit! We're not  _heartless_ like you, and we need _time--_ "

He sees Jensen spill out from a training room and grab Prajapati, stammering apologies as Epsilon flares to life.

Tucker blinks, shakes his head, and moves on into the mess hall where he pushes food around on his tray before going to pass out on Donut’s floor.

**day ten.**

Tucker spends a lot of time  _not_  thinking, which is  _waaaay_  better than the thinking he  _has_  been doing because it all winds into these vicious circles that leave him literally swaying on his feet.

He has been trying to picture it. Trying to picture the physical violence Wash must be enduring, wondering if he was hurting now, right this very second, if he has broken bones, or bruised ribs -  _would that make it seven times now?—_ Tucker traces his hands along his own body trying to picture it.  _Trying—_

He knows that Wash is strong, and he has seen Wash endure so very much physical damage. Wash can handle anything. He knows this.  _He knows—_

Felix and Locus probably know too.

He wonders if they know about Wash's mind, about how Wash gets confused, wonders if there's a way they could hurt him that way too.  _Wonders—_

It's hours later when Tucker blinks the water out of his eyes, to find Dr. Grey pulling him from a freezing shower that he doesn't remember getting into, told on by someone he doesn't remember being there.

“Wash likes the water,” he tells her. It’s important that he explain, that she understand. “He—in Freelancer—after—the rain—”

He can’t piece the words together in the right way and he realizes that his teeth are chattering. Dr. Grey doesn’t scold him, or question him, or say anything at all .She simply leads him through the halls, pats his hand and tucks him into a bed in the infirmary.

**day eleven.**

Tucker sits next to Carolina on the highest wall of the base. He can’t remember if she joined him or he joined her, only that they found themselves here together, Epsilon pacing in front of them. Tucker watches his avatar until the blue burns his eyes, and even then he doesn’t look away.

“Epsilon,” Carolina finally says. “Answer the question.”

The question, the question, the question. What was the question? It was important. It had something to do with Wash and eleven days, and the odds. Tucker tries to weave these threads together but finds it too difficult, and simply holds onto the ends of them instead. He can’t think. His brain feels like mush. He isn’t sure when last he slept.

Epsilon stops pacing and looks at them both, his shoulders rising and falling helplessly. “The odds aren’t _good_ , okay? Eleven days in the hands of the enemy, with no contact? The odds aren’t good.”

“Right,” Carolina says. She looks at Tucker. Looks at Epsilon. “What if we—”

“No,” Epsilon says tiredly. “C, _no_.”

She sets her jaw and glares at him. “You don’t even know what I was going to _say_.”

“What—yes I do! And it’s not going to work—”

“Epsilon _, I can’t just sit here_ —”

“Neither can I!” He resumes pacing, hands clenching and unclenching restlessly in front of him. Tucker’s seen Wash do the same thing when he was stressed and he wonders just who picked it up from who. “Just…give me a second to figure this out, okay? I can do this, I can…I can do this.”

“Okay,” Tucker says.

Epsilon turns to stare at him. “Okay?” he asks, the barest hint of uncertainty underlying his tone.

“Okay,” Tucker says again. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Okay,” Epsilon says, then nods firmly to himself. “Okay, okay, _okay._ ”

**day twelve.**

“You think Wash is dead. _Don’t_ you.”

Tucker blinks, disoriented. It’s dark, and he’s in his armor on the floor. Caboose’s floor.

“How did I get on your floor?”

Caboose sniffs. “You were sleeping in the mashed potatoes. You, ah. You probably thought that they would be a nice pillow because they are very soft and fluffy, but they aren’t very comfortable. Yeah. And Emily said if she saw you sleeping in places not meant for sleeping again she would put needles in you to make you sleep, and, well, I don’t like the sleeping needles.”

Tucker stares at him.

“So I brought you here,” Caboose says. His eyes are huge, owlish in the moonlight. “But now I am thinking I should have left you in the mashed potatoes, because you think Wash is dead and _I_ don’t think that’s very nice—”

“I don’t think Wash is dead!” Tucker protests. He pulls himself to a sit. “Caboose, I _don’t_ —”

“Liar.”

“I’m not _lying!_ ”

“Then why are you crying?”

Tucker freezes before wiping at his cheeks, horrified to find them wet. “I _didn’t_ —I _wasn’t_ —”

“ _Everyone_ thinks Wash is dead,” Caboose says, still in that same angry voice. “And if everyone thinks Wash is dead, then there are no people to go and rescue him.”

Tucker stares at him for a moment. “You really think he’s alive?”

“There were bombs,” Caboose says. “And we buried a lot of bodies. But we didn’t bury Wash’s body. And if we didn’t bury Wash’s body then he isn’t dead.”

Tucker grits his teeth, pressing the heels of his palms into his stupid, wet eyes. “It doesn’t _work_ like that, Caboose.”

“Yes, it _does._ ”

“ _No_ , it doesn’t.”

“I still think he’s alive,” Caboose says stubbornly. “And you need to think so, too. Or I will leave you in the mashed potatoes next time.”

“You can’t tell me what to think,” Tucker snaps.

“I would not have to if you didn’t think such stupid things.”

Tucker snorts. The giggle bubbles up through his chest and he forces it down, forces it down with all the other swirling screaming madness curled up tight inside of him.

_Forces—_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for your kind words and understanding at the chapter delay. you are all wonderful, wonderful people and i am very grateful to have you all reading. 
> 
> thanks as always to my [beta](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniMax/pseuds/MiniMax) for being so encouraging and helpful and for putting up with my ridiculous self, and also just for existing, and to [iz](http://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiontales/pseuds/Goodluckdetective) and [taller](http://archiveofourown.org/users/a_taller_tale/pseuds/a_taller_tale) for helping me figure out the beginning of this chapter. it takes an army, man. sometimes, it takes an army. <3


	25. Chapter 25

Sunlight, sunlight, sunlight.

It spills into his room but it’s all wrong. It’s too _bright_ , far brighter than the window that let the starlight into his room during Freelancer—

No. _That was before,_ Wash thinks. That was _before,_ and this is now, _and_ …

He squeezes his eyes shut harder. Tries again.

Sunlight, sunlight, _sunlight._

It spills into his room but it’s all wrong because he is used to sleeping in Tucker’s room, where the light is red and falls across his eyes and he has to squint to see Tucker and—

“Agent Washington. How are you feeling?”

The voice has him snapping his eyes open immediately, only to force them closed against the light once more. _That wasn’t real,_ Wash tells himself. That wasn’t real, because he _knows_ that voice and that voice is _gone,_ long gone, it is gone because he _killed_ that voice—

_Did you, though?_

Sunlight.

Sunlight.

Sunlight.

It spills into his room and it isn’t quite right. The window in his bunk on the _UNSC Tartarus_ is tiny, too tiny to let in such a large amount of harsh light and besides, he never saw the sun there—

**_Lies._ **

Something deep inside him screams, howls, rages against the memories. Lies, lies, lies, _all of them lies_ —they are lying to him, they are—

 _Put them away._ He has to put the memories back in their boxes. Has to put the lies away. Has to—

“Agent Washington, can you hear me?”

Light blue, dark blue, green, red, black. He needs a new box, a box for the lies, but there are so _many._ His head is too full and he cannot fit anything else in there; it is going to explode. He needs to put the lies away in their boxes but he doesn’t know what the lies are and—

_Your name is Agent Washington. Your friends call you Wash._

The thought snags him and he holds onto it, lets it become the eye of the storm that he will build around. The _who_ , always the _who_ , first. The _where_ , second.

“Agent Washington.”

Wash opens his eyes.

_No._

He knows the _who_ , of that he is positive— _your name is Agent Washington your friends call you Wash you are on Blue Team_ — but the _where_ is impossible, the _where_ is all wrong. He left this _where_ behind long ago, left it lying in the darkest reaches of his memory. He _cannot_ be here, it is impossible that he is here, and yet the window is the same, the sheets are the same, the—

“Can you hear me?”

When they ripped Epsilon away from him, it had left a yawning, bloody cavern straight through the center of Wash’s mind. Wash has fallen into it before, although _fallen_ was not quite the right word: he had jumped, taking with him everything he knew about Alpha and Allison and Freelancer and the Director. They could not reach him down there, in that bottomless pit where he himself did not even know his own name.

It had taken him years to claw his way back out, and he has since learned to build around the trench—to lay sturdy floorboards over it so that he could walk without fear of falling, to stack the boxes up high enough to keep them safe. He has been careful, so _careful,_ and although he has teetered on the edge several times in recent years, although he has had to rebuild the floor and restack the boxes, he has been okay.

But _now,_ as he looks at the face of the man sitting next to him at his bedside, a man who should not be here, could not be here—

He looks at that face and almost falls back in.

Wash catches himself just in time, scrambling away from the edge of madness. “You,” he croaks, his voice weak and parched. “ _You.”_

The Counselor tilts his head sympathetically, reaching out to rest a hand on Wash’s arm. “Agent Washington, you have been through quite an ordeal—”

Wash jerks away from the contact, only to find that his wrists are bound at the side of his bed—of his _hospital_ bed. Hospital. Restraints. Blue scrubs, a dirty window, white sheets— “Don’t touch me,” he snarls, trying again to pull away from the Counselor.

The Counselor does withdraw his arm, but not until he has let it sit there for several seconds longer than necessary. “Agent Washington—”

“Stop—saying—my—name,” Wash grits. He glances around the room, looking wildly for something, _anything_ that seems out of place. “Where am I?”

“You are in an off-site Recovery ward,” the Counselor says. “We brought you here, after the ship crashed.”

“What ship?” Wash asks, his voice rising even as he knows what the Counselor’s words will be next.

“ _The Mother of Invention,_ of course.”

There is the barest hint of bewilderment in the Counselor’s voice, as if there couldn’ _t possibly_ be another ship, as if this is an answer that Wash should know. It’s a subtle thing, masterfully hidden, and Wash knows this because he has _already spent_ two years being manipulated by this asshole.

_Wash, it sounds to me as if you were psychologically abused—_

“No,” Wash says. He turns away and looks up at the ceiling, searching for something to ground himself. The ceiling offers little comfort, particularly when he finds that it has the _same_ two missing tile pieces as his room in Recovery. How long had he spent, bound to his bed staring at the ceiling, counting the tiles and always getting stuck on these missing two?

“No,” he says again, louder. “No, that’s not right—I’m on—I’m on a planet called Chorus and—”

“Chorus?”

The Counselor’s voice still holds the same note of polite bewilderment and Wash knows he should say nothing more, knows that every word out of his mouth will be ammunition this man could use against him but he’s panicking now, there are two missing tiles in the ceiling and they are _the same missing tiles_ —

“Chorus,” Wash confirms. He forces himself to breathe steady. _In and out, in and out. Don’t look at the ceiling tiles. Look at something else. The pale blue of his scrub pants._ “My—my name is Agent Washington. My friends call me Wash and I am on a planet called Chorus. I am the leader of Blue Team and—”

“Blue Team?” The Counselor’s voice dips from bewilderment to disbelief before he catches himself. “Agent Washington—”

“STOP SAYING MY NAME!”

He lunges for the Counselor then, forgetting about the restraints, forgetting that he probably wouldn’t get very far even if they weren’t there. His muscles feel weak and sluggish, his stomach is hollow and hungry, his throat feels as if it has been scraped raw, the back of his head is throbbing. He lunges anyway, struggling so hard that his wrists start to bleed and he feels light-headed from panic. The Counselor is trying to say something but eventually gives up and presses a call button.

A nurse enters the room a few minutes later, dark hair in a braid down her back, and she looks so startling familiar that Wash stops struggling. “Sarita,” he croaks, but even as he says the name he knows it isn’t right—that wasn’t his nurse’s name but it was close—this can’t be her but she looks _so close_ —

He’s so busy staring into her face, trying to convince himself that she isn’t real, that he doesn’t notice the sedative she pumps into his IV until it’s too late. She casts him a sympathetic smile, something large and frightened behind her eyes. “I’m sorry, Wash,” she whispers as his vision turns fuzzy. “I’m sorry.”

“Samira,” he slurs as the world starts to blacken _. That was it._ Samira. _Samira_ was the name of one of his nurses, and she’d had the same long dark hair and fierce brown eyes, but Samira couldn’t be here, couldn’t be on Chorus…couldn’t be…couldn’t…

The last thing he sees is a flash of her black hair and the two missing ceiling tiles, high above him.

* * *

They keep him sedated, after that. When the Counselor comes to call the next morning, Wash can barely turn his head to meet his eye. “Don’t,” he mumbles, but he can’t get out any more than that.

“I’m worried about you, Wash,” the Counselor says, which is far, _far_ worse than his continuous use of Agent Washington. “You sustained quite a blow to the head during the ship crash and we are concerned that it may have fractured your reality. You have been here for several months, and—”

“No,” Wash says. He shakes his head but the motion sets the room spinning, so he stops. “Not right.”

It _isn’t_ right. He hasn’t been in captivity for several months, he _couldn’t_ have been—it was absurd, completely absurd. No one kept their enemies alive in captivity for months—

 _No. Not captivity._ The Counselor was saying that he had been in the Recovery ward for months, but that wasn’t right either, that was _years_ ago, and if it was right, if he was _really_ in Recovery, he would’ve seen—

“Tronosky,” he says, and the Counselor stops short.

“I’m sorry?”

“Tronosky,” Wash says, sounding out each syllable so that there could be no mistake about his words. “Not here. Would be here.”

The Counselor regards him thoughtfully for a while before speaking. “You are referring to your neurosurgeon. Dr. Tronosky. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Wash says firmly. “Yes. He’d…”

“Perhaps you don’t remember,” the Counselor continues. “But he…moved on. He no longer works here—”

_No._

_“Tronosky to security, we have a problem in room seventeen, do you copy?”_

No. He remembers, he _remembers._ Tronosky hadn’t moved on, they’d driven him off. He’d kept Wash safe for as long as he could; he had been the only thing standing between the Director and Counselor and Wash’s sanity for a month. He’d given Wash precious time to lay the barest foundation of his mind back down before they’d threatened him, and he had to go.

Wash doesn’t like the way the Counselor is looking at him now, as if he’s just figured something out, but he says nothing more that day, just leaves Wash to count the tiles in the ceiling, to count the memories inside his head. Later that day, there is another nurse who visits him, who is as achingly familiar as the first. Jason, he says his name is, and it’s not right—Jackson, that was the name of his other nurse, he’s positive, _Jackson Jackson Jackson_ —but he looks so similar and Wash wonders if he’d ever remembered them right in the first place.

* * *

The Counselor’s questions turn, over the next few days, from vague, sympathetic observations to pointed inquiries. “Tell me about your experience with the Epsilon A.I., Agent Washington.”

Wash laughs. He laughs because it is _absurd_ that the Counselor should be asking about this, about Epsilon—it has been _years_ since he has had to keep that information secret. That information is tucked away, the memories neatly divided and catalogued and kept far away from his own. “You don’t want to know about the Epsilon unit,” he mutters. His sedatives have not been quite as heavy lately, but his limbs still feel as if they are made of lead. “It doesn’t _matter anymore._ ”

“Perhaps you don’t remember,” the Counselor says, almost as if he is trying to reassure himself of this possibility, “but you tried to kill the Director. Can you tell me why you did that?”

_IF I GO, I’M TAKING YOU WITH ME—_

_\--his armor is burning, burning with blue flame and he has no control over his hands as they point the pistol at the Director—_

_\--as he points the pistol at_ himself _—_

_\--did I want to die do I still—_

They are slithering, the memories, slithering out of their neat little boxes, lids clattering to the floor—

“Wash,” the Counselor says, “it is very important that you discuss this with me.”

_Why?_

He isn’t sure whose voice it is that speaks up from his memory, but he listens, holding tight to the word. Why, why, why? Why did the Counselor want him to talk about this, why did he want Wash to relive things that had long since been dead and buried?

_They are trying to scramble you up._

The voice sounds oddly like Epsilon’s but even as he recoils from the sound, Wash knows the words to be true. He doesn’t know why, but—

_They are trying to make you break._

* * *

He does not break.

Wash can tell, after a few days, that the Counselor is frustrated. What he does not know is if the frustration is contrived or not, and itt takes everything he has to not fall into the trap the Counselor is setting. He shoves every other thought, instinct, hope and fear aside and focuses only on this, on not going down this rabbit hole. He does not answer the questions the Counselor throws at him, does not engage in his what-ifs. It is impossible not to think of the Director or Alpha or Epsilon but he will not engage, he will not discuss, will not—

His sleep that night does not dip below the surface, and he is disoriented when his door slams open in the middle of the night, the Counselor leading the way. Wash has never heard the Counselor raise his voice, let alone slam open doors, and he shoves his disorientation aside.

“Agent Washington,” he says calmly, “this is your last chance. I want you to tell me about your experience with the Epsilon A.I., and I want you to do it now.”

_They are trying to scramble you up._

“No,” Wash says. His heart is pounding in his chest but he is committed to this. The Counselor stares at him and Wash stares back, determined. He will not speak. He will not break the gaze. He will not—

The Counselor does break their eye contact first, but there is no time for any sort of relief to settle. “Bring them in,” he calls towards the door.

Wash watches, bewildered, as soldiers wearing the UNSC armor drag in two nurses, the two nurses who look just like his nurses in Freelancer. Samira and Jackson. Before he can say anything, before he can even catch their eye, one of the soldiers raises a gun and puts a bullet through the center of their skulls.

“NO!”

Wash moves towards them before he remembers the restraints. They are dead, eyes wide and unseeing, blood and brains splattered on the wall across from Wash. “No—no—why did you—”

He falters as a second soldier drags someone else in through the door, someone in a crisp white lab coat, with dark curly hair and thick glasses—

“Tronosky.”

Wash says the name before he can stop himself, sick with shock and disbelief. No. It isn’t him, because he couldn’t be here, on Chorus—

_Why couldn’t he be? You don’t know where he went after Recovery, he could have gone anywhere—_

Wash looks hard into the man’s face as he is forced to his knees. He is battered and bloody and clearly dazed, but it’s him. Or it’s _not._ Wash can’t tell. It’s been so long and _he can’t tell_ —

The Counselor moves and Wash’s eyes snap to him, heart clenching as he pulls out a pistol and levels it at Tronosky’s head. “This is your last chance Agent Washington.”

Wash clenches his fists in the bedsheets, twisting them round and round. “I don’t—I don’t know what you want from me—”

“I want you to talk to me. When I ask you a question, I want you to _answer it._ ”

“I’m not answering any of your questions,” Wash spits. “I’m not—I’m not answering any of your lies—”

“You have already been responsible for two deaths here today. Would you like to be responsible for a third?”

“You’re a monster,” Wash says. His heart is thudding so loudly in his ears that he can barely hear himself speak. “A monster—”

The Counselor presses the gun more firmly into the man’s temple. “I take that as a yes.”

“I can’t— _I don’t know what you want from me_ —”

“Everything.”

His words suck all warmth from the room. “Wait,” Wash says, panicking, “ _wait_ —”

“Farewell, friend,” the Counselor says, looking at the Tronosky _who is not Tronosky_ —

“Wait, wait, DON’T--!”

Wash screams. The Counselor pulls the trigger and the man falls and Wash screams, howls, fights against his restraints with everything he has. He screams as they drag the bodies out, as they haphazardly wipe up the blood and the brains and the pieces of skull. He screams until he is alone in the room, alone with his thoughts, alone, alone _alone._

The blood stains the white tiles of Wash’s floor and he stares at it until he isn’t even sure what he’s looking at. That hadn’t been Tronosky, _couldn’t_ have been Tronosky, but they’d killed someone, they’d _killed someone in front of him_ to make him cooperate. Wash isn’t even sure at this point what cooperating is, only that he isn’t going to do it, no matter what.

His grip on sanity is a slipping thing, but he holds tight to it, skirting the pit in his head. When the Counselor comes in to speak that day, he acts as if nothing has changed between them. Wash remains silent, staring at the blood on his floor and the tiles in his ceiling. He does not look at the Counselor, does not speak to the Counselor, and he does not miss the satisfied look on the man’s face when he gets up to leave.

There are new nurses that come to feed him and lead him to the bathroom twice a day— _fake nurses,_ Wash thinks viciously— _fake_ , this whole thing is _fake_ —but he spends two days getting their guard down, allowing himself to be led limply around. On day three, their guard finally drops and he waits until they are halfway across the room before half-turning and driving his elbow into the face of one of the nurses.

He goes down with a howl and Wash turns his attention to the second one who spins, pulling a gun out from under the waistband of his scrubs and aiming it at Wash. Wash manages to drive the thing up into the ceiling where it discharges several bullets. _Not nurses, not nurses, not nurses._ He wrests the gun away, points it at the first soldier, and fires two bullets into his midsection. The soldier drops with a surprised gurgle, and Wash is just turning to look for the second one when there’s a click, and something hard shoved into the back of his head.

“Back in the bed. _Now,_ asshole.”

Wash grits his teeth and does not move.

“Oh, you think I won’t fucking do it? I’ve had to pretend to be your fucking _nurse_ for two goddamn days. I would love the chance to shoot you in the fucking head and tell that creepy ass _Price_ dude that it happened in the struggle. Give me a reason, I swear to God.”

Slowly, Wash raises the hand with the pistol, and the mercenary snatches it away from him. “Back in the goddamn bed. Now.”

He shoves Wash back into the bed and secures his wrists back into the restraints, muttering to himself the whole time. “Do not get paid enough for this bullshit, swear to _God_ —”

He storms out, leaving Wash in the hospital bed with the other soldier bleeding out on the floor.

Wash closes his eyes as the door slams shut behind him and tries to center himself. It takes a few moments to gather the thoughts that he wants towards him, to suck them from the swirling mass of confusion and panic that is his mind, but the thoughts do come. The violence, the movement, has jarred something loose in his brain, and he can do this. Start simple. Start small.

_Your name is Wash._

_You are on a planet called Chorus._

_You have been taken by the enemy._

He pauses here. The enemy. _Charon Industries,_ he remembers after a few moments. Charon, and Felix, and Locus. The Counselor. Th _e enemy._ There had been a fight, a mission gone bad, and he’d been shot somewhere, in…

The leg. Wash opens his eyes and glances down automatically at his thigh before remembering that he can’t see the wound through the scrub pants. He flexes his thigh, shifting around. There is a dull ache, but nothing more than that. They must have removed the bullet and stitched him up.

_Why?_

His thoughts catch on the word and he frowns. _Why did they fix his leg?_ They could have left the bullet in, let the wound fester until he was sick and feverish. Instead, they had taken the time and the resources to not only fix his leg, but to…

To do _this_. Wash glances around the room, at the perfect replica of his hospital room in recovery. He could spot the differences now that he was looking for them—the window was a bit too large, the sheets weren’t quite the right shade of white—but the similarities were uncanny. They had _deliberately_ recreated this room, had tried to make him think that he was still in the hospital, that he was still losing his mind, that he was _broken._ They had filled his head with lies, with new memories, with a sick, twisted, version of his reality—

His stomach heaves as the lies claw their way to the forefront: the _Tartarus,_ the prisoners, the grey armor with the aqua accents. Coming face to face with Carolina, feeling the Counselor’s blood spilling out over his hands. Waking up in the snow to see, not the brightly colored armor of the simulation troopers, but the standard greys and blacks of the UNSC. Lies, lies _, lies,_ he knew they were lies but they felt so real he could taste them, and maybe he couldn’t _quite be sure_ —

A hollow chill settles in his chest and Wash gives his head a firm shake. _That wasn’t real,_ he tells himself again. They Reds and Blues had stayed. They stayed and gave him blue armor and took him _home,_ to a base with ringing rocks and a waterfall. Tucker had made him pancakes and Caboose had given him his first real hug in years and Simmons had eventually stopped flinching whenever he walked in a room and they’d all baked him a birthday cake out of ration bars in Red base while the rain fell softly outside and Grif smoked a cigarette under the overhang and they’d found that old bottle of whiskey and did a shot that left them all gagging, even Sarge.

_They had stayed._

The hollow feeling in his chest lifts, to replaced almost immediately with an ache that leaves him breathless. It is so simple that he almost cannot name it:

He _misses_ them.

He misses his friends.

Wash holds onto the feeling, painful though it is. His _friends_. It is the first time that his mind has been clear enough to think of them properly, and now that he has he cannot stop. He wonders what they’re doing right now. If they’re okay. If they all made it back from the battle safely, or if there had been injuries or worse. He wonders—

A door slams open somewhere, and Wash tenses, sitting up as straight in the bed as he is able with the restraints around his wrists. He can hear footsteps making their way down the hall, and voices, loud and angry. “—told you to fucking _watch_ him, Jesus Christ, do I have to do everything myself around here?”

“We _were_ watching him! He just fucking went nuts, like the fucking _Hulk_ —”

 _“He doesn’t even have any weapons_ —”

“He’s a Freelancer!”

“A _former_ Freelancer! He’s been lying in a bed for two and a half weeks! Jesus Christ! Just— _go_. Just—just _go_ get Locus. I’ll take care of this.”

“There’s nothing to take care of, I _told_ you he’s secured—”

The door slams open, bouncing off of its frame and nearly clocking Felix in the face as it swings back. Wash knows it’s Felix immediately, despite the fact that this is the first time he’s seeing the merc’s face. Felix is half out of his armor, the grey and orange plating on his legs the only clues, in addition to his voice, as to who he is. Everything about him is plain, utterly forgettable. Greying, dark close-cropped hair and sharp brown eyes. Muscles long and lean, built for speed. He’s older than the sim troopers, older even than Carolina.

Wash catalogues these details automatically, without really caring about their meaning. “Liar,” he snarls, as soon as Felix throws the door open. “Liar, liar, liar, you’re all _liars_ —”

Felix stops short, staring at him before turning back to the guard. “On second thought? I’m sorry you had to listen to this whining for…however long you did.”

The soldier snickers. “Right? I mean, he _is_ pretty dramatic, am I right?”

“Get out,” Felix snaps, and the soldier is only too happy to obey.

The door shuts and it’s only the two of them. “Liar,” Wash spits again. The rage is burning so hot inside his skull that it feels as if his brain is about to melt out through his ears. “You’re _lying_ , I know you’re lying, this isn’t—this isn’t _real_ —”

He jerks hard against the restraints, reopening the cuts that had finally closed. He knows he shouldn’t, knows that he should remain impassive and indifferent, but all of his training and knowledge has been shoved to the side in the face of this blinding anger.

“You done?” Felix asks, bored, after watching him struggle for a while. “ _Christ,_ you’re a whiny little bitch.”

“I know you’re lying,” Wash says again. His voice is shaking and he know he sounds crazy, but he needs to make sure that they know this. “You can tell me all the stories you want, it won’t work, I know you’re lying and it won’t work, you’re wasting your time—”

“Oh, _believe_ me. I couldn’t agree more.”

Wash stops yanking as his restraints only momentarily as Felix sighs, wandering over to him. He sits down on the edge of Wash’s bed almost absentmindedly, but Wash knows the motion is anything but. “Now, between you and me, this whole _brainwashing_ attempt? _Complete_ waste of time and resources. I told them, I said, give him to me for a few days, week _tops,_ and I’ll break him into so many _little tiny pieces_ that he’ll do whatever we want him to do. But _Price_ —you know Price, right—Price says no, he’s had all sorts of RTI training, physical torture won’t work, blahdy-blah-d-blah.”

Wash’s wrists are slick with blood from where he’s fighting against the restraints, but he can’t stop himself. His skin is crawling, adrenaline and anger making it impossible to stay still, the knowledge that he has probably been in a bed for _weeks_ leading to a nearly unbearable sense of claustrophobia. It gets worse when Felix lunges for him suddenly, one hand cupping his jaw and forcing Wash’s face to turn towards his. “You’d _think_ that after the fifth fucking time you threw off the illusion, they’d let me do it _my_ way, but _nooo_.”

The moment hangs heavy in the air and Wash doesn’t break his gaze. He can feel his own pulse hammering like mad beneath Felix’s fingers. “Oh, that’s right,” Felix whispers, watching him closely. “I said the _fifth_ time. You really have no idea just what we did in there, do you? Just _how much_ we crammed inside your head—”

The door opens again, and Price and Locus both come in. “ _You_ ,” Wash snarls, his gaze locking onto the Counselor as he redoubles his struggling.

Felix tightens his grip on Wash’s jaw, lifting an eyebrow at Locus. “You see? It’s not working. Can we _please_ just move along to the good part now?”

Locus is still in full armor so Wash cannot see his face, but the displeasure in his voice is all too clear. “You assured us that you knew what you were doing,” he says, head turning slowly towards the Counselor. “ _You assured us_ that replicating this scenario would lead to a break in Agent Washington’s mental state.”

“Gentlemen, the breaking has already begun.” The Counselor moves slowly across the room to stand on the side of Wash’s bed and Wash lunges for him, despite the restraints, despite the fact that Felix is still holding tight to his jaw and neck.

“You,” he says again. “You—I don’t want to hear any more of your fucking lies—”

“—these smaller fractures that we are creating will do far more damage than a single break ever could—”

“Shut up,” Wash growls. He pulls harder than ever against the restraints, and Felix redoubles his grip. “Shut up, shut up, shut up, _shut up_ —”

“Look, we don’t have _time_ for this,” Felix interrupts. “Locus. If Control knew how many resources we were wasting here I don’t think they’d be very happy, do you?”

A long look passes between the two. “Felix is right,” he says finally. “I suggest we move along to the next phase of the plan. Whispers of Agent Washington’s death have already begun circulating throughout the army, and it would not do to let them continue.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Wash says suddenly. “It doesn’t matter if they think I’m dead or not—”

“It is late,” the Counselor says, interrupting him, again. “I suggest that the three of us come up with the best possible strategy for the next phase, and begin first thing in the morning.”

“Fine,” Felix says, finally letting go of Wash’s jaw. “We’ll let Wash here get his beauty sleep. Right Wash? I think you’re gonna _need_ it.”

* * *

Wash does not sleep that night, and they do not bother with drugs to force him to do so. His dozing is fitful, delirious, and it seems to take years before dawn breaks through his window.

The door to his room opens not soon after the daylight filters in, and Wash turns sharply to see Locus and two of the space pirates approaching. Wash lunges the moment the undo his restraints, but his movements are weak and sluggish and it’s too easy for the pirates to force his arms behind his back. They drag him out the door and down the hallway, to a small, dark room with no windows. It looks to be an office of some sort, consisting of little more than a table and a chair. Wash is forced into a chair, his arms yanked painfully behind him. The click of handcuffs fastening seems to echo in Wash’s ears, and he freezes in his struggling before he can mask the motion.

He knows that Locus saw it when he pauses in his act of closing the door behind the space pirates as they leave. “It must be difficult for you,” he says suddenly.

Wash stares at him, then snorts. “What, being held captive by two crazy mercenaries and the man who ruined my life? I can’t imagine why you’d think that.”

Locus doesn’t answer at first, just begins pacing, a slow, methodical circle around Wash’s chair. “Does it remind you of prison, Agent Washington?”

He is out of Wash’s line of sight when he says it and Wash has to force himself not to turn and look for him. “I don’t—”

Locus’s hand clamps down on the back of his neck without warning, directly above his implants, and Wash actually gasps before furiously wresting himself back under control. _Don’t react,_ he screams at himself. _Don’t react, don’t react, don’t—_

It’s impossible not to jerk when Locus runs a thumb down one of the scars on the back of his neck. The whole area feels swollen and painful, and Wash is suddenly sick with the implications of what they’ve been doing inside his head. The pain is secondary, though, to the panic he feels at having someone at his back, having someone with their _hands on his neck_ —

“It must be difficult,” Locus says again, his voice closer to his ear than Wash was expecting, “for a soldier of your caliber to be rendered so helpless for so long.”

Wash forces his breathing to remain relaxed and normal, but Locus says nothing more. The seconds drag on and still Locus does not move, just remains there with his hand cupped over the back of Wash’s neck, and Wash doesn’t move, doesn’t move an _inch_. His skin is crawling and Locus’s words pound in his brain, over and over: _helpless, helpless, helpless._

He’s almost grateful when the door slams open and Felix enters, a small camera in his hands. “Alright, let’s get this party started, I’ve been waiting _forever_ for—”

He stops suddenly, glancing between Locus and Wash. “Oh, I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?” he asks, his voice sounding oddly petulant and sulky.

Locus finally steps away from him. “Do you have the camera?”

“Of _course_ I have the camera,” Felix snaps. He’s still looking between the two of them. “That’s literally the _only_ reason I left, was to get the fucking camera—”

Locus snatches it out of his hand and rests it on the desk, glancing around for something to lean it against. Felix is glaring at Wash now, and Wash glares back. They don’t break eye contact the entire time that Locus is trying to get the camera in the right position.

“He’s too pretty,” Felix says finally. He tilts his head at Wash. “Yeah. _Waaaay_ too pretty.”

A pause from Locus. “What?”

“I said he’s too _pretty_ for this,” Felix snaps. “Not a single mark on him. The army’s gonna think we’re putting him up in a five-star hotel with silk sheets every goddamn night.”

Locus glances up again from where he’s fiddling with the video camera. “Agent Washington has lost a significant amount of weight,” he says. “It is clear that he isn’t sleeping and has undergone a severe amount of stress—”

“ _Stressed?_ That’s what we’re going for? Oh, _hey_ Armonia, here’s Agent Washington, look how _stressed_ he is?”

“You have no subtlety,” Locus snaps.  “They will be more far distressed to see that his wounds are more psychological than physical.”

“I’m sorry, are we or are we not about to _torture him_ on _camera?_ There’s nothing subtle about it! Look, I’m telling you, he looks too good. We need to mark him up a bit, give them something to look at—”

“If I may,” the Counselor says mildly. The bastard is so silent that Wash didn’t even see him arrive in the doorway. “Felix isn’t entirely wrong. We are trying to drive them to do something…rash. While some of Agent Washington’s comrades will notice his psychological state, we may need something a bit more obvious to spur the others into action.”

“Fine,” Locus says. He waves a hand at Felix, dismissive and already turning back to the camera. “Do it.”

“Finally,” Felix says. He turns, flexes his hands, and wastes no time in hitting Wash across face so hard that he half-blacks out.

When he comes to, Locus is saying “—gloves _off,_ Felix, we need him conscious and _coherent_ —”

“Right, right.” Wash blinks the stars from his eyes to see Felix removing his gloves and, for some reason, his helmet. He tracks the motion as Felix sets his helmet down on the floor, his stomach clenching uneasily.

“That all you get?” he grits out, more to distract himself than anything. “I’ve taken harder hits than that from the cadets in training—”

He’s ready for the blow this time as Felix strikes him in the face again, in the same spot. “You know,” Felix says when Wash straightens, “Continuing our little heart to heart from earlier—I gotta say, this whole captivity thing has been _really_ boring so far. I mean, I’m sure the payoff will be totally worth it, but—I was really hoping to have a little _fun,_ ya know?”

Felix hits him again, in the stomach this time, and Wash doubles over as all the breath leaves him. “But our friend Price here says none of the usual stuff would break you. That it had to be a mental game, carefully crafted, blah, blah blah. Between you and me, I’m not entirely sure I _agree._ Given enough time, and enough pressure, anyone will break.”

Felix meets his gaze, lets the moment sit before shrugging with a sigh. “Ah, well, I guess we’ll never know, will we?”

Another strike, directly to his solar plexus, this time Felix grips him tightly by the hair and yanks him up so their eyes meet before Wash can fully catch his breath. “A shame, really. I have _such_ a thing for blonds.”

Felix’s fingers tighten in his hair, eyes darkening as he leans closer. Instinct has Wash wiping his face clean of all emotion before he registers what Felix is about to do, old training from Freelancer or farther back kicking in and telling him to be _still_. It takes everything in him to listen to those instincts as Felix he lowers his mouth to Wash’s neck, teeth grazing over the pulse point before he seals his mouth around the skin there, sucking hard. Wash clenches his hands into fists and doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t react even as he feels Felix’s teeth bite down again, so sharply that his skin breaks. He keeps his face blank and disinterested as Felix pulls back enough to look him in the eyes, his other thumb brushing over the painful mark he’d just left.

“He’s _right_ , isn’t he?” Felix says with a sigh. “You’d just disassociate the fuck out and then it wouldn’t be any fun at _all_. This is the kind of thing that would get to Tucker, not to you—”

Felix brightens at that, slapping a hand on Wash’s shoulder and spinning to face Locus. “Oh-ho! Now there’s an idea. All things _considered_ , I don’t think _Captain Tucker_ would like it very much if I had my hands all over his _boyfriend_ here, do you Locus?"

 _He doesn’t know that_ , Wash reassures himself. He _couldn’t_ know that he and Tucker were…whatever they were.

“Probably not,” Locus says absently, and Wash is, if possible, even more unnerved by the fact that Locus seems utterly uninterested in this information. As if it were a given that he and Tucker were—

_Wait._

Why did they care what _Tucker_ thought?

They should be far more concerned about what Kimball or Doyle thought, or even Carolina. Not Tucker. Tucker held no sway over the deep, internal workings of the military. They should be trying to get to the leaders, trying to negotiate for information.

 _They haven’t asked me a single question,_ Wash realizes suddenly. Not a _single_ —

He’s so distracted by his thoughts that he loses the thread of what Felix is saying, and almost misses the flash of silver as Felix unsheathes a knife from his waist. Wash is a moment too late in masking a hiss of pain as Felix takes the knife and draws it deliberately across his chest right over his heart, from his collarbone to his sternum. The blood blossoms out from the wound, the red startling in its vividness over the pale blue of his scrubs.

Felix’s face fills his vision once more as he wipes the knife off on Wash’s shirt, before resting the point against Wash’s cheek. “Oh, you know what I just realized?” he says suddenly. “This was the knife that was inside Tucker.”

Wash’s stomach churns, the pain of the knife slicing across his cheekbone second to the sickening knowledge that this was the weapon that had almost killed Tucker, had scared him so badly that it took him _months_ to be able to train with knives without shaking.

“We should let the wounds sit,” Locus says, appearing at Felix’s shoulder and examining Wash critically. “Twelve hours or so.”

“See, now _that’s_ what I’m talking about,” Felix says in satisfaction. “Oh, wait, one more thing—”

Felix bends down and scoops his gloves off the floor, sliding them on before wrapping his hands around Wash’s throat and squeezing hard. The motion is unexpected, leaving Wash no time to breath deep, and it isn’t long before he’s jerking hard against the hold. Felix keeps squeezing, right up until he point where Wash’s vision is red and his body is going limp, before letting go.

There’s a moment, when everything is red, just before his muscles start to relax, that he thinks, quite clearly: _Tucker would be really upset if he knew what was happening to me._

He holds onto that thought as he starts to lose consciousness, then clutches it closer still as Felix finally lets go and oxygen floods back in. _Tucker would be really upset,_ he thinks again, the sounds of Felix and Locus and the Counselor leaving distant, unimportant things in the face of this knowledge. He would be furious, devastated if he knew about the violence and the mind games—

 _Emily,_ Wash thinks. Emily would be _livid_ if she knew about the brainwashing, the manipulation, the drugs. She was going to want to strangle the Counselor herself when she saw the state of Wash’s neural implants, because God only knew what was going on in his head at this point. It was going to take her so very long to put them back together once he was back home.

Once he was rescued.

Wash’s heart is pounding, the pain of his new wounds utterly forgotten. He _would_ be rescued, he realizes, because it wasn’t just Tucker and Emily who would be furious if they knew what was happening to him. He thinks of the way Caboose would want to hug him tighter than usual, the way Sarge would put together some half-assed mission, the way Carolina would cut through everyone in her path. He thinks of Donut, and Grif and Simmons, and even the cadets and the Feds.

Thinks, _people would be really upset if they knew what was happening._

_People are probably going out of their minds with worry._

People, people, people.

 _I have people,_ Wash thinks.

He closes his eyes. _People, people, people._ People who were worried about him. People who were coming for him. People who cared for him, who…

He holds onto this, keeps it tucked away in the deepest, safest corner of his mind, protects it in every single way he has learned to do so over the years. They leave him there all day, bound to that chair in the dark and he repeats that thought to himself, over and over as the hours drag on. His muscles go numb at hour two, his stomach starts howling in hunger at hour seven, and his bladder finally loosens at hour nine, but he grits his teeth and repeats their names, over and over. People. Tucker and Carolina and Caboose and Emily. He sets the cadence of their names to the ticking of the clock, lets the sound become soothing instead of maddening. Hour twelve. Sarge and Simmons and Donut and Grif.

Felix and Locus reenter the room at hour fifteen, and Wash pulls their names even more tightly around himself. His people. He wasn’t going to see them anytime soon, but they were going to see _him_. Felix is saying something to him as he secures a piece of thick tape over Wash’s mouth and yanks his head up from where it was drooping, but his words don’t matter. Felix doesn’t matter.

Wash knows who matters, and he fixes his gaze on the eye of the camera and pretends he can see them, can see each and every one of them. The light on the camera turns green and Wash blinks at the green light and thinks, inexplicably, _Epsilon._

\--and Caboose and Carolina and Tucker, Emily and Sarge and Grif and Simmons and Donut.

Caboose—

And Carolina—

And Tucker—

Tucker, Tucker, _Tucker—_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -don't look at me okay  
> -also APOLOGIES TO ANYONE WHO DID NOT READ 'THE LONG WAY DOWN' AND WAS CONFUSED AS FUCK FOR HALF OF THIS CHAPTER  
> -also can i get a HELL YEAH as i pay solemn homage to The Captive Fic to End All Captive Fics, [Seen This Ground Before](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1588691/chapters/3376217)? Sera wrote Wash-being-tortured-on-camera first, and did it gloriously. i thank sera for the inspiration, and thank her for EVERYTHING SHE HAS EVER WRITTEN.


	26. Chapter 26

**day thirteen.**

Caboose spends the entire day telling stories about Wash to anyone who will listen.

It is nearly _unbearable._

Tucker wants to die. He wants to cover his ears and scream and throttle Caboose and burn everything in this base that Wash has ever touched until it is nothing but ash and smoke.

He doesn’t. He follows Caboose around as if there’s a rope binding them together _(circles his world has compressed to circles, from the army at large to the sim troopers to Blue Team)._ He listens to Caboose’s stories, some of them fake and some greatly exaggerated but there is truth in all of them, there is _Wash_ in all of them. Some of the soldiers leave abruptly. Some chime in with their own stories. Some cling to Caboose’s every word, until there are a dozen or so of them sitting together, closer than normal, listening to the words.

Caboose tells fifty-three stories that day and Tucker drinks in every one.

**day fourteen.**

He wakes up on Donut’s floor in a panic, the fuzzy pink sheets twisted around his legs. There’s something important about today that he’s forgotten and he flips frantically through his recent memories, trying to drag it to the surface. Wash is gone. They don’t know where he is. They’re consistently losing battles. Fitz is dead. _Eighty-five, twenty-two, thirty-three._

It isn’t until he’s standing in the mess hall line that he realizes it’s been two weeks to the day since Wash had been taken.

_Two weeks._

Two weeks without a single word.

Tucker drops his tray back on the counter and turns abruptly, sick with fury and guilt. Two weeks, two _weeks_ , _two weeks_ and he had almost forgotten the number of days. He has no dog tags, no piece of jewelry or special article of clothing that belonged to Wash. He only has the _numbers_.

He will not forget again.

**day fifteen.**

“Father, are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”

Tucker startles in his chair, snapping his eyes back to the monitor. Junior is watching him with a frown, head tilted in concern. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’m—”

The _fine_ sticks in his throat. It’s too much, the enormity of the lie, and Tucker cannot speak around it. He shakes his head. Buries his face in his hands. Counts to ten.

Junior interrupts him on eight. “Is Wash okay?”

Tucker jerks his head up to blink at the screen, astounded. “What did you—why would you think something was wrong with Wash?”

“You…you talk about him _all_ the time,” Junior says. “Except you didn’t last time we talked, and you aren’t this time, either.”

“I talk about him all the time?”

Junior looks at him like he’s an idiot, and Tucker is struck by how much of himself he sees in that face. “Father, _seriously._ ”

“I…” Tucker thinks back to their previous conversations and tries to remember what he could have possibly told Junior about Wash that stood out so much. “What do I talk about?”

Junior pauses, thinking. “Well— _everything_. How he taught you to throw knives, and how he tied that rope between you guys so you wouldn’t be scared anymore, and how you got him that bag of sugar and then he got you that special soap for your hair and…I don’t know, Father, you just talk about him _a lot_.”

“Oh,” Tucker says. It’s all he can manage, so he says it again. “Oh.”.

“I would like to meet him,” Junior says, watching him closely. “He sounds cool. I think I would like him.”

“Yeah,” Tucker says, his throat tight. “I think you would too.”

**day sixteen.**

Carolina is angry and Tucker loves it. He _loves_ it, finds himself seeking her out just to revel in her fury. He wants to be angry, too. He wants to feel something, _anything_ other than this hazy, numbing fog. It’s making him slow and dumb and useless. He _cannot_ be useless.

He follows Carolina into the training room and snipes at her until she snaps at him to either get the hell out or glove up for a sparring match. Tucker is all too happy to glove up and they face off, punching, kicking, tackling, grappling. Carolina fights with deadly precision, leaving his jaw aching and head swimming without being entirely sure if it was a punch or kick that landed him on his ass. She is careful and so is he, and they hit each other just hard enough. It would not do to have either one of them out of commission, to be rendered _useless_.

Wash needs them.

They cannot be useless.

One of Carolina’s punches lands right on the corner of his jaw, sending stars spiraling into his eyes and jars his brain loose. A bit of the fog falls away and a red hot _something_ leaches in through the cracks. Tucker tugs at it, wraps it around himself like smoke. It isn’t anger, not _yet,_ but he can mold it and shape it, make it hard and unyielding and _useful._

**day seventeen.**

“When was the last time you slept?”

Tucker stops his pacing in the war meeting room to stare at Kimball. “Huh?”

“I _asked_ you,” Kimball says calmly. “When was the last time you got some _sleep?_ ”

“Uh, how the fuck is that _any_ of your goddamn business?” Tucker snaps. Across the room, he sees Donut clap a palm to his forehead and sigh. “What are you, my _babysitter?_ ”

“No, Captain Tucker. I am _not_ your babysitter. I _am,_ however, the woman who is about to tell you you’re _not_ going on this mission.”

“Like hell I’m not!” Tucker pretends he doesn’t see Donut and Ali exchange meaningful eye contact. “Are you fucking _kidding me right now?_ ”

“Tucker, you are in no state to run recon,” Kimball says firmly. “You’re exhausted, you’re overworked, and you’ve been snapping at everyone—”

“Oh, _that’s_ such fucking bullshit—”

“Tucker—” Ali glances at Donut again. “Look, we got this, okay?”

“You _don’t!_ ” Tucker spins to him so fast that the world seems to tilt, and it takes a few seconds to register Kimball’s hand on his arm. “Get _off_ —”

“Tucker—” Kimball yanks on his arm hard, forcing him into a chair. “Sit. Down. _Now_.”

“I _have_ to be there,” he says frantically, trying to peer around her to look at Ali. “I have to be there! What if you find him and I’m not _there_ —”

“Dude. We’re just running intel, this isn’t like, a full-scale _rescue_ mission!”

“And we’ll stay on comms the whole time,” Donut says earnestly. “We’ll update you on everything!”

“We might need back-up, if shit goes down,” Ali says. “We’ll need you ready—”

“Oh, don’t _fucking_ patronize me—” he glares up at Kimball, who blocks his way when he tries to stand. “What, are you gonna physically _restrain_ me?”

“If I have to.”

They hold eye contact for a long moment before Tucker turns away with a growl. “Fine. Fucking _fine,_ go, just goddamn _go_. I’ll sit in the Pelican bay like a good boy. But if I get the slightest hint that you’ve found Wash, I’m gonna be out this base so goddamn fast you won’t even see me leave. Got it?”

“We got it, Tucker,” Ali says, exasperated, and jerks his head at Donut. “C’mon, Frank, let’s go.”

“Don’t fuck this up,” Tucker snaps at their retreating backs.

He pretends he doesn’t see the hurt on Donut’s face.

**day eighteen.**

The meeting is long and circular and exhausting, filled with endless back and forths that lead nowhere. The intel is inconclusive. Charon has been silent. No one has seen Felix or Locus on recent missions. We know nothing. We know nothing.

_We know nothing._

Tucker tunes in and out, the words useless, all of them, until he hears Simmons saying “—to consider the possibility that he’s, well, _dead._ ”

Tucker sits up in his chair, gaze snapping his direction. “What did you just say?”

Simmons casts a nervous glance his way before turning back to Kimball. “I mean, statistically _speaking_ —it’s been over two weeks—”

“Eighteen days,” Tucker snaps. “It’s been _eighteen days_ , Simmons.”

“Right,” Simmons says slowly. “So, um. _Statistically_ speaking, soldiers only withstand torture from an enemy for seven, maybe ten—I mean, it all depends on the _type_ of torture said soldier is undergoing, but—we haven’t heard a _word_. They haven’t asked for ransom, or anything—I just—I think we might have to _consider_ —”

“You think we should give up,” Tucker says, staring straight ahead. He cannot look at Simmons. “You think we should _leave him there_ with those fucking lunatics—”

“No, I don’t! I—I just think we have to be realistic, consider that he might be dead—Tucker, he _might_ be—”

_“STOP LYING!”_

He does not recognize the scream that rips from his mouth. He feels like a stranger in his own body when he shoves away from the table, shaking, and lunges at Simmons. He wants to punch him, to hurt him, to yank those filthy lies right out of his mouth—

Grif hits like a freight train, all power and weight behind his heavy fists. Tucker lands on the ground hard, and for several long seconds he can’t see. He lays there, dazed, rolling blindly to his side and trying to push himself up on weak arms. He hears a clatter much like a chair falling into a floor and Caboose’s voice, loud and unhappy: “Well, _that_ wasn’t very nice.”

There’s a crash and a thud and a lot of confused yelling, and when Tucker finally hauls himself to a sit and shakes the lingering blackness from his eyes, it’s to see Donut standing between Grif and Caboose, one hand on either of their chests. “Stop! _Stop!_ We can’t fight! _Stop_ it!”

“He thinks Wash is dead!” Caboose yells. He’s trying to tug Donut’s hand off his chest but Donut has a death grip on his shirt and Caboose is unsuccessful. “He thinks Wash is _dead_ and _I_ don’t think that’s very nice! I do not think people who think Wash is dead should be allowed to go on secret missions where we try to save him or be in secret meetings where we talk about him! I _don’t!_ They think Wash is dead and he is not dead! _He is not dead!_ He is—”

And then Caboose is crying, big gulping sobs. The rest of the room goes dead quiet as he backs away from Donut and falls heavily into a chair, burying his face in his hands. “C’boose,” Tucker mutters weakly. He has no idea what _the fuck_ to say, he can’t _deal_ with this but his world has contracted to circles and Caboose is on Blue Team and Wash would—well, Wash wouldn’t know what to say either but he’d say _something_.

Before he can even move, Carolina is there, standing in front of Caboose. “Come on,” she says firmly. She tugs one of his hands away from his face and pulls him to his feet. Caboose follows her mechanically, still sniffling and wiping at his eyes, and Tucker watches with his mouth agape as Carolina marches over to the door, yanks it open, and leaves, her hand still wrapped in Caboose’s all the while.

“Well, fuck,” Tucker mutters. He can’t look at anyone else in the room, and settles for picking at the carpet between his knees. He jumps when he feels someone’s hands under his arms, and jerks around to see Grif lifting him off the ground.

“Let’s go, asshole,” Grif snaps. He shoves Tucker towards the door. “Taking a leaf out of their book. No more meetings. Go on, fucking _move_ it!”

Tucker obeys with only a little hesitation. He’s half-convinced that Grif is leading him to his death—to push him off the base’s wall, perhaps—but he’s too tired to care. Instead, Grif leads him to his room, and points at his bed. “Sit your ass down.”

“Uh…” Tucker blinks. “So like, if you’re thinking we’re gonna have sad I-miss-my-boyfriend sex—”

Grif pauses from where he’s rummaging in his locker to throw Tucker an unimpressed look. “ _Gross,_ Tucker. No, we’re not _fucking_ —nice try though, in your _dreams_ —no, we—” he pulls a bottle filled with amber liquid out of his locker with a flourish, “are _drinking_.”

“We shouldn’t,” Tucker mutters. “We shouldn’t be doing—doing anything fun, not while Wash is being tortured—”

“Oh, it’s _not_ gonna be fun,” Grif says darkly. He takes a swig of the bottle and passes it over to Tucker, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. “It’s gonna be shitty and depressing and awful and you’re probably gonna cry, but we’re doing it anyway. Drink up.”

He doesn’t move, just stares at the liquid sloshing inside of the bottle. “Do you really think Wash is dead?”

“No, I don’t,” Grif says. “And neither does Simmons, by the way. That’s just how he processes shit. With facts and statistics and numbers. Ya know, _nerd_ stuff. It’s a hell of a lot more useful than your constant crying and whining.”

Tucker stares at the bottle, hesitating, before taking it from Grif and drinking deep. “That’s fucking disgusting,” he mutters, but they drink it anyway and it _is_ shitty and depressing and awful, _all_ of it, the whiskey and the dark night and the ache inside Tucker’s chest, but Grif is there drinking beside him and that’s not so bad, and when Simmons pokes his head tentatively into the room two hours later, Tucker hands him the bottle and that’s not so bad either.

Not so bad at all.

**day nineteen.**

“This is _bullshit!_ ”

Tucker turns from his watch post on Armonia’s wall to see Sarge standing next to him. “It’s not your watch, Sarge.”

“I make m’own watch!”

Tucker rolls his eyes and gazes back out over the city before curiosity gets the better of him. “What’s bullshit?”

“That I gotta be the temporary leader of Blue Team, _that’s_ what.”

When no further explanation follows, Tucker turns to face him fully. “Uh, who the fuck put you in charge of _Blue_ Team and how did I miss the memo?”

“Washington did.” Sarge sniffs. “Obviously.”

“ _Really._ Wash put _you_ in charge of Blue Team.”

“Sure did.”

“And when the fuck did _this_ happen?”

“At the crash site,” Sarge says blithely. “He pulled me aside and said, he said, _Sarge? Got a favor to ask of you. Man to man, leader to leader._ I said alright, I suppose we can have ourselves a temporary truce while you make your proposition.”

Sarge clears his throat. Readjusts his grip on his shotgun. “So he said, _I’ve got a funny feeling about this planet. Something here just don’t sit right with me._ Well, I couldn’t agree more, so I told him to go on. Know what he asked me then?”

“I’m _sure_ you’re about to tell me.”

“He straightened his back and looked me dead in the eye and said, in true Agent Melodrama fashion: _Sarge, if something happens to me, I need to know that you’ll look after my men. I know they’re Blues, but they’re good people, and good soldiers. Caboose can lift up the Warthog in a pinch and Tucker makes the world’s best pancakes and there ain’t no better men a leader could ask for at his back.”_

“He didn’t say that,” Tucker says, blinking at Sarge. “He _didn’t_ —”

“So,” Sarge continues loudly. “I thought about and I said, _alright, fine, Frecklelancer. You do something stupidly heroic and I’ll take care of your boys. I’ve done my fair share of babysitting, what’s two more?_ ‘Course, then we ended up on the same side of that rock wall, so the point was kind of moot, but—well, here we are, all these months later, and duty calls me to be the interim leader of Blue Team after all.”

“That didn’t happen,” Tucker says after a beat of silence. “That—he never asked you to do that.”

Sarge shrugs. “Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. You’ll never know, will you?”

“What’s your point?” Tucker snaps.

“M’point is that you need to man up! Stop crying in corners and weeping over your lover’s picture!”

“I’m not _weeping over my lover’s picture_ —”

“Unknot your panties and—”

“This _isn’t funny_ , Sarge!”

Sarge grabs his elbow and yanks him forward until there are mere inches between them. “Never said it was,” he growls. “ _Never said it was_. You think I like being the leader of Blue Team? You think I like thinking about what’s happening to Wash? I’ve been around the block a few times, son. I know how this works. But you know what else I know? That you running around bitchin’ and moanin’ and yelling at everyone who’s trying to help isn’t going to fix jack _shit!_ ”

“I had him,” Tucker says. His face feels hot and he’s never been more grateful to be wearing his helmet. “I—I fucking _had him_ , with _me_ , and he was—we were—and _now_ —”

“I know,” Sarge says. “We’ve all had someone with us and then lost ‘em. But _you’ve_ got a chance here. A chance to get. Him. _Back_.”

He lets go of Tucker then, turning to leave. “Don’t fuck it up,” he says without turning around, and then he’s gone, red armor fading into the black of night until Tucker can no longer see his shape.

**day twenty.**

Tucker lies on the floor of Donut’s room and watches the clock, staring at the big bubble letters until they begin to lose their meaning. It will be midnight soon, and midnight means a new day. Midnight means day twenty-one.

Midnight means week three.

Week _three_. It will have been _three weeks_ since Wash had been gone, had been _taken_ from them. Tucker promised Caboose that he wouldn’t give up hope, but he isn’t even sure what hope looks like anymore. _“I do believe we have to consider the possibility that they are no longer on the planet,”_ Doyle had said glumly that very morning, echoing Simmons’ earlier sentiments, and Tucker had kicked his chair over on the way out of the room.

He is losing it, he knows that, unraveling piece by piece. This was far, _far_ worse than the first time Wash had been missing. Wash was alone now, alone and in the hands of Felix and Locus, and Tucker was _sick_ with the idea of what they were probably doing to them.

If he was even still alive. Soon it would be week three and for the first time—

**day twenty-one.**

\--Tucker wonders if he’ll ever see Wash again.

***

The army is listless and silent the next morning, all of them going through their training exercises and moving mechanically through the mess hall. Tucker wonders if the rest of them feel it too, the mocking, ominous pretense of _day twenty-one week three_ , wonders if anyone else has counted the days as he has. Wonders if they marked them down on a piece of paper, or scratched them into the wall or even the dirt, where the wind could sweep the hours away. Tucker has kept time only in his head, repeating the days to himself over and _over_ again, so that he never forgets, never, ever forgets that he let Wash down for two days, for five, for ten, for fifteen.

For _twenty-one._

He is only able to stomach half of a ration bar before heading over to the training room to meet Carolina. They have kept up with his sword training, both throwing themselves into it with new fervor. Tucker knows that his days of being merely _good_ with his sword are over. He must be _better_ than good. He must be the _best_ if there’s any chance of saving Wash.

The training sessions with Carolina are grueling and unforgiving, and Tucker looks forward to them each day with vicious pleasure. As the days pass, he finds himself seeking out her company more than anyone else’s. Carolina does not tell him to take a break or take it easy, and Tucker does not ask for one. He thinks they both _need_ this, to push and be pushed. He catches the disapproving glances every time they emerge from the training room, hears the whispers that say they need to be careful, but he doesn’t _want_ to be careful.

He doesn’t deserve to be careful.

Today is no different. Carolina is no expert with the sword, but she has risen spectacularly to the challenge of an unfamiliar weapon. There are still gaps in his training that Tucker is beginning to accept might never be filled, but he has come a long way. Today they don’t speak; they simply run through their katas before moving to sparring with the wooden swords and hand to hand. It feels good. His muscles are sore and singing and it feels _wonderful,_ to be training, to be getting better.

Tucker doesn’t realize that three hours have gone by until he hears a loud _TUT_ of disapproval at the door, and turns to see Donut standing just inside the room, his arms crossed. “Now, _honestly._ ”

Tucker drops his fists and draws a hand across his brow, throwing an agitated glance Donut’s way. _“What?”_

Donut has his helmet tucked under his arm, so Tucker can see every frown line and disapproving glare. “You _know_ what!”

“No, I don’t,” Tucker snaps, “so unless you’re here with some useful information—”

Donut swells at that, actually _swells,_ his chest puffing up and his arms drawing back. “Don’t you take that tone with me, Lavernius Tucker!”

Tucker snatches a towel off the bench and scrubs it over his face, taking a deep breath and trying to quell his temper. It’s too close to the surface these days, bubbling just out of sight. He’s already had it out with every other member of Red Team and really doesn’t want to add Donut to the list. “I’m not taking a tone. I just want to know what you’re doing here.”

“And I want to know where you two get off running yourselves into the ground like this!”

Tucker glances at Carolina, who has suddenly wiped her expression clean. No help from that corner, apparently. “I’m not—we’re just _training_ , Donut.”

Donut’s glaring intensifies. “Oh, _reeeeally?_ When was the last time you ate?”

“I had breakfast before I came in here!”

“ _Half a ration bar is not breakfast,_ Tucker!”

“Dude, are you _spying_ on me?”

Donut sniffs, folding his arms across his chest. “I have it on good authority that _neither_ one of you has been eating properly—”

“So you’re having _other_ people spy on me,” Tucker interrupts. “Wonderful. _Fantastic._ We don’t need you babying us, you know—”

“Wash wouldn’t want you to be pushing yourselves like this,” Donut says, and Tucker blinks hard. He wasn’t expecting him to go in for the kill so quickly, but Donut continues, stepping into the room. “Wash would want to know that you’re taking _care_ of yourselves—that we’re _all_ taking care of _each other!_ ”

The blood is starting to thud dangerously in Tucker’s ears now and he’s rapidly forgetting his promise to not yell at Donut. “Well, we don’t _actually_ know what he’d want, now _do_ we?” he says loudly. “Considering he’s not here and all.”

“ _I_ know,” Donut says. Unlike Tucker’s, his voice is getting quieter and quieter. “ _I_ know he’d want that.”

“Know what I think he’d want? For us to come and _get_ him.”

“Which we’ll _do,”_ Donut says firmly, “but we can’t if two of our strongest fighters are collapsing from _malnutrition and sleep deprivation!_ ”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Okay, let’s not get melodramatic.”

Donut fishes two ration bars out of his pocket and brandishes them at Carolina and Tucker in a threatening sort of way. “I’m not hungry,” Carolina says. She says it automatically, as if she’s had this conversation a million times before. Which, Tucker realizes, she probably has.

“And _you,”_ Donut huffs. “You didn’t eat _anything_ this morning and your hair looks simply atrocious!”

“It’s fine,” Carolina says, in that same automatic tone. “ _I’m_ fine. And so is my…hair?”

“ _Don’t_ think that I haven’t noticed you aren’t using that _Powerful Pixie Pomade_ I got you—you know, it wasn’t exactly a walk in the park getting that stuff on the last supply run!”

“Donut, _look_ —we’re not hungry.” Tucker tosses his hand towel back onto the bench. “Man, you don’t _understand_ —”

“ _SHUT UP!_ ”

Tucker jumps. He _jumps_ because Donut yelled at him, raised his voice and _yelled,_ and when Donut gets into his face and shoves him, Tucker’s jaw nearly drops to the floor. “Shut up, shut up, _shut up!_ ”

Carolina has dropped her politely disinterested expression as she looks between the two of them, aghast. “ _Donut_ —”

“ _You shut up too!”_ Donut yells. “I’m so _sick_ of the pair of you! Running around like you’re the only two who care about Wash—”

“We never _said_ that,” Tucker says weakly. “We _never_ —”

“Don’t tell me I don’t understand! Wash is my friend too—my friend, _mine_ —I know he’s your lover but…but…” Donut struggles for a moment before his stony façade crumples, replaced by a hopeless devastation. “ _You aren’t the only one whose lover is_ _gone!_ ”

His words hit Tucker hard, and a glance at Carolina’s face shows him that she feels similarly. Tucker is just opening his mouth to say something—anything—when Epsilon pop up on top of Carolina’s nearby helmet, glaring at Tucker. “Nice going, asshole.”

“Shut up, Epsilon,” Tucker snaps. “Donut…look, I…”

But Donut is turning away, wiping hastily at his eyes and fumbling for the door. Tucker makes to follow him, but somewhere in the middle of his first step, between his foot lifting off and landing, everything changes.

Static. There is so much static, and Tucker reaches automatically for the dial on his radio before he remembers that he isn’t wearing his helmet. Carolina makes a similar gesture, meeting Tucker’s bewildered eyes.

“Oh my goodness,” Donut says weakly, Tucker turns to see his gaze directed somewhere over their heads. “ _Look_.”

He follows Donut’s gaze to the television monitor hanging in the corner of the gym. Up until now, Tucker hadn’t even realized that it worked, and he’d all but forgotten it was there. The rest of the gym’s inhabitants are already clustered around it, looking up at the monitor in horror.

Because _Felix_ is on the screen.

He isn’t saying anything, just standing there with his arms folded across his chest, waiting for— _something,_ apparently. The silence sits until the tension in the room is so thick that Tucker thinks he could probably cut it with his sword.

Felix huffs a little, glancing somewhere to his left. “Is this fucking thing even on—well, why didn’t you _say_ so? Good _God_ —” Felix straightens, the lines of his body sharpening as he looks back at the camera. “ _Hey_ there, Armonia. I hope you’re all enjoying this lovely weather we’ve had recently—it’s great, isn’t it? Chorus just—just _shines_ in the autumn, if you ask me.”

“Anyway! I’m sure you’re all want to know how Agent Washington is doing, so—let’s cut right to the chase, shall we? You know, I’ve been hearing a _lot_ of rumors lately and I gotta say, it _saddened_ me to hear that you’d given your buddy up for dead. Frankly, I thought we’d have to thwart at _least_ one shitty rescue mission attempt, but—well, once losers, always losers, am I right?” Felix laughs, careless. “I couldn’t help but feel a bit _sorry_ for you, so I just wanted to let you know that Agent Washington isn’t dead.”

“Uh oh,” Epsilon mutters. “This is _not_ good, Carolina, we—”

Felix steps aside and Epsilon stops talking and everyone in the room gasps because there, finally, _finally,_ is Wash.

Tucker feels a relief so powerful that it nearly knocks him right off his feet. Wash, Wash, _Wash._ Wash is _there,_ and he is _alive_ , and Tucker takes a moment to revel in the feeling, light-headed and loopy with relief and joy and hope.

The relief doesn’t go away, but it is shoved into the background as Tucker _looks_ at Wash. He looks bad. Really bad. Wash is bound to a chair, hands drawn behind his back, and he has a piece of duct tape over his mouth— _duct tape,_ like it’s 1995 and they’re in a fucking _superhero movie_ or something. It’s wrong, _all wrong,_ because if anyone is the hero here it’s supposed to be Wash, not him. He’s gotten used to that word recently— _hero_ —after Freelancer, after the Tower, but he’s never needed to be a hero as badly as he does now, and he doesn’t know if he’s up for it.

Wash looks so _tired_. Tucker notices that first, that Wash looks exhausted down to his very core, before the other details register: the blood, the bruises, the vicious _handprints_ on Wash’s neck. There’s blood all over the front of his scrub top and a deep cut right across his cheekbone and he has some serious scruff going on. Wash shaved every single morning, after his morning run and before breakfast, and Tucker’s never seen him with stubble, let alone scruff.

“ _So!”_ Felix claps his hands brightly, and Tucker’s eyes snap back to him. “As you can see, Agent Washington is very much alive and—well, I wouldn’t say _well,_ but we haven’t broken him into _too_ many pieces just yet, have we Wash?”

He rests his forearm on Wash’s shoulder, leaning casually into his space, and Tucker clenches his hands into tight fists at his sides, the nails cutting into his palms. “Don’t touch him,” he snarls under his breath. “Don’t _fucking_ touch him—”

“What do you say we put on a little show for Armonia here while we break off a few more?”

“Carolina,” Epsilon says weakly. “I think the whole base is getting this video.”

Tucker hadn’t noticed at first, but he can hear it now: the echo, in both Felix’s words and the static, projecting from God knows how many monitors. “Everyone’s gonna see it,” Epsilon continues. “We have to lock it down—”

They all suck in a breath as Felix pushes himself back to a stand, shakes out his wrists, and backhands Wash so hard that his head snaps to the side.

“No!” The cry escapes him before he can stop it and Tucker lunges at the television, as if moving closer to the image will actually bring him closer to Wash. “ _Wash_ —”

“C, we have to go, _now!_ ”

Tucker sees Carolina startle out of the corner of his eye. “Right—“

“NO!” Tucker yells it again, lunging at Epsilon this time, not taking his eyes off the monitor. “No—don’t turn it off, don’t, you _can’t!_ ”

“I didn’t say turn it off, I said _lock it down_ —look—C—I’m going to centralize this to the monitor in the meeting room, I’ll meet you there!”

Epsilon winks away and Carolina grabs his arm, yanking him around. “Tucker, come _on!_ ”

“Wh—” Tucker stretches his neck to glimpse the monitor in time to see Felix crack Wash across the jaw again. “No, no, I don’t want to leave him, I can’t leave him!”

Carolina spins him around and shakes him, hard. “Tucker! Pull it together! We have to localize the signal—Tucker, the whole base is going to see this, everyone—”

_Everyone._

Tucker breaks into a run next to her as they clear the room, Donut hot on their heels. There’s a thundering noise behind them and when Tucker glances back, he sees the entire training room follow them as well. “Wait, we’re coming too!” Andersmith yells, but Carolina just tightens her grip on Tucker’s arm and quickens their pace

They catch glimpses of television screens as they run, the sounds of Felix’s voice and latent static echoing in Tucker’s ears. The screens in the hallway go black all at once, and Tucker skids to a halt, horrified. “Wait! Bring it back, _bring it back!”_

“Tucker—in here—”

Carolina yanks him around a final corner, hauls him and Donut into the war meeting room, and slams the door in the face of what looks like half the fucking army. Kimball and Doyle are both in the room, as well as Sarge, but it’s empty otherwise or at least Tucker thinks so. A sickened sort of relief sweeps through him as he looks at the huge monitor to see Wash and Felix still there. The image is much crisper and clearer now, and Tucker’s eyes roam over Wash, taking in every detail, committing it to memory. He’s lost weight, _a lot_ of weight, and there’s a stain on his scrub pants that Tucker suspects is urine, probably because they’d had him that _fucking chair_ for God knows how long. His one eye is blackened, and the handprints on his neck were clearly made by someone wearing gloves. Tucker looks into his eyes the longest. They are exhausted and haunted, but he can see _Wash_ in them, burning bright and fierce. He’s in there. Despite it all, he’s still in there.

“I locked it down,” Epsilon is saying quickly to Kimball, projecting himself using one of the smaller monitors. He moves automatically to Carolina’s shoulder. “Locked it up, no one else can see it now but us—”

Felix’s next strike lands on Wash’s ribs, and Wash curls in on himself, letting out a little _oof_ of pain. The sound echoes on and on in Tucker’s ears as if he’d screamed it. “Wash! Wash, it’s okay, we’re coming—we’re coming for you—” he half turns to Epsilon desperately. “Can he hear us? Can we get a mic?”

“I’m working on it,” Epsilon mutters. “I’m—“

They all stop talking as Felix pulls out a knife, spinning it thoughtfully in his hands and turning it to the camera. “What do you say we make this a little more interesting, _hmm_ Wash?”

Felix grabs Wash by the hair, yanking his head up and putting the knife to his throat. For one sickening, heart stopping moment, Tucker is  _sure_  that he's going to kill Wash right then and there, and he lunges at the monitor before he can stop himself. “So many _options_ ,” Felix says. His voice is thoughtful as he absentmindedly flips the knife so that the flat of the blade is against Wash’s skin and drags it down his neck, across the bruises and over the pulse of his throat and down to his collarbone and _that’s a fucking hickey on Wash’s neck_.

Tucker moves closer to the monitor still, barely registering the frantic protests of everyone else in the room as he blocks their view. A _hickey_. He knows it. He’s left enough marks on Wash’s skin himself to know how easy it is to raise a mark, to know exactly what shade of purple it would be depending on how long he sucked, to know just how much pressure to apply to get Wash to _shudder_ —

Carolina yanks him impatiently away from the monitor and Tucker lets her, his eyes locked onto the screen. He can practically feel Felix’s fucking smirk from all the way over here. “Oh, you asshole,” he breathes. “You mother _fucking_ —”

“You know, I think I want to play around a little more with that cut from earlier, but—I can’t really see what I’m _doing_ here,” Felix says. He wraps his hand around the collar of Wash’s shirt and yanks hard, the fabric tearing down to his navel. Tucker can _really_ see it now, the muscle and weight that Wash has lost. There’s a light bruising around his ribs, and a long cut that reaches from his collar to the bottom of his sternum. Felix takes the knife and digs it into the cut, deeper this time, and reopens the wound until the blood is blossoming over the blade. Carolina’s fingers tighten on Tucker’s arm to the point of pain but he doesn’t move away, doesn’t give a single inclination that the motion hurt.

“What do they want,” Kimball murmurs, her gaze fixed on the screen. “What do they _want_ …Epsilon—”

“I said I’m _working on it_ ,” Epsilon says tightly.

Felix draws the knife through the same cut again, and Tucker winces. Wash’s eyes are narrowed, his gaze directed determinedly forward. Some distant corner of his brain registers his admiration that Wash isn’t making a single noise—Tucker knows he’d be yelling his head off.

“That’s gonna need stitches,” Sarge says gruffly from his corner of the room. “Deep cut.”

He’s right. The blood is flowing from the wound at an alarming rate, and Tucker’s heart pounds in his ears. _They wouldn’t kill him,_ he tells himself. _They wouldn’t have kept him alive all this time just to kill him now._

Felix pauses, leaning over Wash’s shoulder to examine the cut. Donut spins away from the screen, burying his face in his hands as Felix digs his fingers into the wound and Wash makes a small, hurt noise. “I think that’ll do,” he says casually. “Definitely going to scar. Had to give you something to _remember_ me by.”

“Move it along, Felix.” Wash’s eyes flick up to somewhere over the camera as Locus’s voice comes, slightly impatient.

“Right, right, down to business,” Felix says. He straightens, leaning an elbow on Wash’s shoulder once more. “Anyway! We made an interesting little discovery while Wash here has been our esteemed guest. Would you like to guess what we discovered?"

He pauses as if waiting for an answer, and Kimball turns once more to Epsilon. “Epsilon, _can we get a mic?_ ”

“It’s not live,” Epsilon says. He sounds a little stunned. “I—this isn’t a live feed. It’s a recording.”

“A _recording?_ But why—”

"What we  _discovered_ ," Felix continues, "is that Washington gets a little flinchy when you get too close to his implants. It's pretty neat, actually. Wanna see?" 

He takes the knife and drags it across the back of Wash’s neck. Wash jerks in surprise, a muffled noise of pain escaping as he twists away from the blade. Felix reverses the knife, slamming the butt of it into the back of Wash's neck. Wash sort of gasps and retches, his head sagging momentarily almost to his knees before he wrenches it back up, curving back as if to protect his implants.

Tucker knows that look, that sort of chin-lifted-shoulders-raised thing that Wash does when he's feeling vulnerable or when he doesn't have his back to a wall. At first, Tucker thought it was some typical Freelancer stuff- _watch your six, never present your back to the enemy_ , that type of thing. It took him awhile to realize that this was more than just a Freelancer thing; it was a  _Washington_  thing, and Washington hated anyone touching his implants, hated exposing the back of his neck to anyone he didn't trust. Wash was best in a fight when he knew he had a wall or a teammate at his back, and he and Tucker had somehow started fighting this way: back to back, covering each other. They made a good team.

But now Wash is doing his chin-lifted-shoulders-raised thing and Tucker's not there to press their backs together, and Felix hits him  _again_ square on his implantation site, and Wash goes down again and takes much longer to drag himself back up this time. He hears Epsilon curse next to him as they get a good look at the blood all over the back of Wash's neck.

Felix trails a hand through Wash’s hair almost lovingly before his grip tightens on the strands. He holds out his other hand. “Toss me the lighter, would you Locus?”

“Oh _shit,_ ” Epsilon says, while Carolina’s grip tightens around Tucker’s arm once more. “Ohhhh shit…”

Felix catches the lighter easily, igniting it just in front of Wash’s face. Wash’s eyes flick momentarily to the flame before refocusing on the camera and narrowing determinedly and Tucker swears that Wash is looking _right at him_. “You’re sure he can’t see us?” Tucker asks. His heart is pounding in his throat and the words come out as a whisper. “You’re _sure?_ He looks like he can _see_ us.”

“I’m sure,” Epsilon says, sounding no less agonized about it. “It’s—this recording is days old—”

_“Days—?”_

Tucker stops talking as Felix brings the lighter around to the back of Wash’s neck and holds it there, directly over his implants. He can’t quite see what’s happening but Wash thrashes hard, twisting his head out of Felix’s grip. Felix grabs his hair again, jerking Wash back. “Wash, Wash, _Wash._ Stay where the _fuck_ I put you, got it?”

He holds Wash fast and runs the flame over the back of his neck once more. The noise of protest that Wash makes as he jerks in pain cuts through Tucker like a knife, and then the noise of protest turns into a muffled scream and Tucker thinks he’s going to be _sick_ —

Donut still hasn’t turned back to the screen, a whimper punching out of him as Wash screams again through the tape. Tucker takes his free hand—he’s got his other wrapped tightly into the hem of Carolina’s shirt and isn’t quite sure when that happened—and pats at Donut’s arm. “Don’t listen,” he says, voice weak. “Donut, don’t—don’t _listen._ I’ll listen. I can do it.”

Donut curls his hands over his ears and Tucker keeps a hand on his elbow. He notices for the first time that Sarge has made his way over to their corner of the room and is patting Donut’s other shoulder and saying, “No shame, son, no shame in not being able to watch.”

Sarge lets out an exasperated huff as Donut clutches onto his arm and press his ear into the hard plates of Sarge’s shoulder guards, and the four of them stand there, holding onto each other and watching the screen, watching Wash. Felix finally closes the lighter after what seems like an eternity and hits Wash across the temple a final time, and this time when Wash sags down he does not lift himself back up.

“So _anyway,”_ Felix says. He picks up his discarded knife and wipes it off in Wash’s _hair_ and Tucker feels himself go lightheaded with fury. “I just—just thought I’d give you guys a little _hope,_ y’know? As you can see, Agent Washington isn’t dead. I’ll make sure you know when that happens—because, I mean, that _is_ going to happen. I just wouldn’t want you to get the date wrong on his death certificate.”

The video cuts out so abruptly that it leaves Tucker’s head reeling.

He lets out a shaky breath, uncurling his fingers from Carolina’s shirt. “Holy shit,” he says weakly. “Ho— _ly_ shit.”

“You’re telling me,” Epsilon says. “Alright, let me see if I can get some kind of lock on where that signal was transmitted from.”

Something tugs at Tucker’s memory, and he turns to Epsilon with a frown. “Did you say this was recorded days ago?”

“Two, at least,” Epsilon says absently. “It must have taken them a hot second to get it through my firewalls—”

“What firewalls?”

Epsilon isn’t the only one who turns to look at him then. Kimball and Doyle have both stopped arguing long enough to turn his way, and Carolina is also looking at him warily. “What. _Firewalls?”_ Tucker asks again, trying to keep his temper under control, but he can already feel it slipping away.

“What firewalls, _hmmm,_ let me see—the fucking firewalls I have up to prevent the enemy from hacking into our shit! The firewalls that protect our data and—”

“And prevents incoming transmissions?”

“Exactly!”

“Incoming transmissions just like _this_ one?”

“ _Tucker_ —”

“You didn’t think to account for this possibility?” Tucker snaps, waving a hand angrily at the screen.

“What, the possibility that we’d get a fucking _video_ memo—”

“Yes! Exactly that! Of course they’d tried to send us blackmail torture tapes! It’s _Felix!_ Jesus Christ, Epsilon!”

“Alright,” Kimball says sharply, “That’s _enough_ —”

“Yeah,” Tucker says. “Yeah. You’re goddamn _right_ it’s enough—”

“Excuse me, excuse me! Doctor coming through!”

They falter as the unmistakable voice of Dr. Grey filters through. Tucker is just marveling at how her voice manages to carry above the rest of the crowd when a pounding starts on the door, somehow more insistent than the others. “Excuse me! Let me in please!”

Doyle casts his gaze heavenward. “Emily, _now_ is not the time—”

“I have vital information, _Donald!_ It most _certainly_ is the time!”

Tucker moves towards the door to let her in, but Doyle sputters his protest. “Half the army’s out there! You can’t let her in here!”

“She says she has information!”

“Which could mean anything—”

“Information about _Washington_ , you idiots!”

Tucker moves again, but Sarge is faster. He crosses the room in three steps, opens the door, and bodily lifts Dr. Grey out of the crowd. They have just enough time to catch sight of several furious faces before Sarge slams the door shut again.

“Alright,” he says, setting Dr. Grey down. “Let’s have a listen to what the good lady has to say.”

“Thank you,” Dr. Grey says. She smooths her hands over her lab coat, adjusts her glasses, and looks around at them all. “I know where Wash is.”

Silence.

“You do? Really?” Tucker asks finally.

His voice comes far more vulnerable and small than he intended, but the only acknowledgement is a soft something in Dr. Grey’s eyes as she turns to look at him. “I do. _Really._ ”

“How?” Kimball asks, at the same time Carolina says, “ _Where?_ ”

“They’re keeping him at the central hospital in Imphonia,” Dr. Grey says. “I did my residency there. Spent more time than you can imagine staring at those horrible peach walls.”

“ _Atrocious_ ,” Donut mutters, and Dr. Grey nods vigorously.

“Great,” Tucker says. “So how far is it? Should we take a Pelican or— _what?_ ”

He stares impatiently at Doyle, who has begun shaking his head so hard Tucker thinks it’s in danger of flying off his neck. “We can’t just march into _Imphonia_.”

“Why not?” Sarge asks.

“My good _sir_ , that city has been abandoned for—”

“Years,” Kimball supplies. “ _Years._ It’s a minefield.”

“Quite literally,” Doyle says. “The ground is riddled with undetonated grenades and pressure mines, and—”

“ _Look_ ,” Tucker says, temper rising, “I don’t care if it’s guarded by the _fucking devil_ himself—that’s where Dr. Grey says he is and—”

“Where Dr. Grey _thinks_ he is,” Kimball cuts in.

“Excuse me,” Dr. Grey says, the slightest bit of frost creeping into her cheery tone. “Imphonia was my home for over a _decade_. I lived in that hospital. Wash is there, I’m sure of it.”

“There are _plenty_ of buildings on this planet with peach walls,” Kimball says through gritted teeth. “What makes you—”

“It wasn’t just the walls,” Dr. Grey says. “The lights, they make this sort of high-pitched whine, like a…”

They all wince as she lets out a loud trill. “I didn’t hear a noise like that,” Carolina says doubtfully.

“I did!” Donut pipes up. “She’s right, there was that sound!”

“Play the video again,” Dr. Grey says. “It was right at the beginning.”

Kimball hesitates, but heads over to the monitor, presses a few buttons until Felix’s image appears once more. “There’s the peach,” Dr. Grey murmurs. “ _Awful_ color—the noise was right before it cuts out...”

They watch in silence, none of them able to look away, until Dr. Grey jumps. “There! Did you hear it?”

Everyone shakes their heads except Donut, and Dr. Grey rewinds the video. “Right after he straightens…”

This time, Tucker hears it, the tiny _trilling_ of the lights in the background. Now that he’s heard it, it’s impossible to miss as it sounds again twenty seconds later. “That is a pretty distinctive sound,” he says.

“Tucker, you’re _reaching_ ,” Kimball says impatiently.

“Did you hear it?” Dr. Grey asks absently. She’s got her datapad out and is taking notes, eyes never straying from the screen.

“I—yes I heard it, but that proves nothing, Emily!”

“I can’t watch this again,” Donut says, moving towards the monitor as Felix pulls his knife out, but Emily catches his hand.

“Wait. I need to keep track of his injuries. For when we bring him home.”

Everyone falls silent at that, and Tucker glances at her datapad to see the notes: _malnutrition, possible cracked ribs, possible fractured skull, severe sleep deprivation._ She says nothing as she watches, just takes her notes, her pen only faltering when Wash sags over his knees, the back of his neck exposed. There’s a loud snap as the tablet pen breaks in her hands. Sarge hands her another one without word.

“Right,” she says when the video is finally over. She swivels to face Kimball and Doyle, smoothing her hands over her lap and clasping her hands around the datapad. “Generals, it is of the utmost importance that we find Agent Washington immediately. He is in terrible shape—”

Kimball throws up her hands. “No one is saying that he _isn’t!_ ”

“Did you see the wound on his stomach? _Did_ you?” She glances between the two of them and when she gets no answer. “That was from a feeding tube.”

“A _feeding_ tube?” Donut says, horrified. “But why would they…”

“I don’t know,” Dr. Grey says calmly. “The only reason that you would hook someone up to a feeding tube is if they were unable to feed themselves. If they _were,_ for example, in a coma.”

“He wasn’t hurt badly enough to be in a coma,” Tucker says, glancing around the room uneasily. “I mean, not when we last saw him. He was shot in the leg, but…”

He trails off, thinking of Wash, unconscious and slung over Locus’s shoulders. There had been blood all over his hair, bright and fresh and visible even from Tucker’s distance.

“I don’t think he fell into a coma from his injuries,” Dr. Grey says, and Tucker is relieved before realizing that there’s nothing reassuring about her tone.

“Then why would he have a scar from a feeding tube if he wasn’t in a coma?” Carolina asks, frowning.

“Oh, I’m almost certain he _was_ in one,” Dr. Grey says grimly. “But I…”

Silence follows her words before Sarge finally speaks. “Go on, Emily. Just tell us.”

For some reason, it knocks the goddamn wind out of him, Sarge saying her name like that: _Go on, Emily._ Tucker recognizes that tone—the soft, yet firm reassuring cadence that one’s voice fell into when someone they loved was dancing around an important topic. He’s used it himself with Wash, many times.

Tucker misses him so much that it _aches._

Emily looks at Sarge and nods firmly, setting her datapad aside and folding her hands atop her crossed legs. “I believe that his coma was medically induced,” she says, once again business-like. “I believe they’re doing something to the wires in his brain.”

“His implants,” Epsilon says suddenly. “You think they’re fucking with his _implants._ ”

“I do.” Dr. Grey picks up the remote and rewinds the video until the part where Wash bows his head to his knees, pausing it there. “His implantation site is swollen. I really don’t like the fact that there was fire so close to those wires, either—there’s a very real chance something could’ve melted right onto his brain.”

“It—it could just be swollen from the torture,” Tucker croaks, shoving the horrific thought of _wires melting into Wash’s brain aside._ “It could, right?”

Dr. Grey shakes her head, hopping off the desk and moving closer to the screen. “You see here? That’s a surgical scar. They widened the ports to expose the wires. I had to do it myself when I operated on him.”

“But _why?_ ” Carolina asks. “Why are they going through all this _trouble?_ ”

“They’re trying to get us to do something rash.”

They all turn to face Kimball, who is watching them all with her arms folded. “They didn’t make a _single_ demand. They didn’t ask Wash a _single_ question. They didn’t even give us a clue as to where he was. His wounds—they were all fresh, couldn’t have been more than a day old. They knocked him around so that he would look terrible for that video.”

“Which proves my point,” Dr. Grey pipes up. She continues, undaunted, when Kimball glares at her. “If those wounds were all fresh, then what were they doing beforehand? Now, I’m no soldier, but it seems to me that one doesn’t spend three weeks with the enemy and remain unscathed.”

“She’s got a point,” Carolina says. “It’s _ridiculous_.”

“So, the question is, what have they been doing all this time?” Dr. Grey raises her hand, ticking the evidence off on her fingers. “He has a scar from a feeding tube. They’ve probably criss-crossed his implants every which way. He’s lost a significant amount of weight. I…I think that whatever tortures he’s undergone, they’ve been far more…psychological, than physical.”

The break in her voice is so slight that Tucker almost misses it. She covers it quickly, the dark of her eyes turning to steel as she looks between Kimball and Doyle. “Tucker’s right. We need to go get him.”

“And we _will,_ ” Doyle says slowly. “But…”

“But we have to be _smart_ about it!” Kimball says, and Doyle nods vigorously. Great. Of all the _fucking_ times for the two of them to agree on something. “The _sole purpose_ of that video was to goad us into going to rescue him—”

“Well, good for them, it worked!” Tucker rakes his hands through his dreads. “Are you actually fucking saying we shouldn’t _go?_ Did we watch the same goddamn video?”

“That’s not what I’m _saying!”_ Kimball takes a breath. “What I’m saying is that we can’t go charging off recklessly, because that’s what they _want_. What I’m saying is that we _need more intel._ What I’m saying is…that this mission will be strictly volunteer only.”

“Fucking great,” Tucker says. “I volunteer.”

“Me too,” Carolina says, as Donut nods over her shoulder.

“Count me in.” Sarge says. “It’s too goddamn tiring trying to lead Blue Team and Red Team. A man can only take so much!”

Dr. Grey pats her datapad. “I’ll be ready.” She glances from Sarge, to Carolina, to Donut, to Tucker. “You bring him home, now.”

“We will,” Tucker says. “I swear to fucking God, we will.”

**day twenty-two. twenty-three? four— _three._ twenty-three.**

Tucker’s life has been reduced to numbers, the kind that won’t stay still.

_Eighty-five twenty-two thirty-three—_

_Day twenty-one week three—_

_Twenty-two (--three, twenty-four, twenty-five—not yet, not yet--)_

This day started out with numbers, too.

Twenty volunteers. There were more, so _many_ more, and Tucker wanted so badly for Wash to be able to see it, to see so many people lining up for him, fighting for the chance to try to save him. But Kimball put her foot down, and so they were twenty.

Ten hours to Imphonia.

Two hours to stake the place out.

Those were the good numbers.

Tucker grits his teeth and closes his eyes outside the infirmary. If he keeps them closed and focuses hard on the numbers, he can almost block out the sounds around him.

Closing his eyes helps little, but he can’t ignore the bad numbers.

Ten blocks into the city.

Twelve mines.

Three snipers.

Six grenades.

Tucker exhales slowly and lets his head fall back.

Nine dead.

Three critical.

Two lost limbs.

And thirty minutes.

Thirty minutes of hell until they’d been forced out.

Kimball is storming down the hall to him, to _them,_ and he knows that in any other circumstance he’d be terrified, but now he’s just counting down the steps until she’s in front of them.

_Six five four three two..._

“What. _Happened?_ ”

Tucker knows what she’s really asking. Kimball already knew what happened, had been debriefed on that awful Pelican ride back _(two more deaths on the Pelican, Tucker had vomited in the corner until there was nothing left in his stomach and he wasn’t the only one--)_ She knew about the loss of life and limb and the horrible failure they’d suffered. She wasn’t asking what happened.

She was asking _how_ they let it.

There’s a lump in Tucker’s throat that he cannot speak around, so he doesn’t try, just shakes his head and stares at his clasped hands. When Kimball speaks again, her voice is full of anguish. “I told you we needed more time. I told you that whole city was a death trap, I told you we weren’t ready!”

She isn’t even looking at Tucker, but he knows that the brunt of her rage is directed at him. He can’t blame her. Seven out of the nine had been New Republic cadets.

 _Her_ cadets.

“We’ll do better,” Tucker manages, his voice barely above a whisper. “Next time. We’ll—we’ll do better—”

“Next time?”

Tucker glances up, and their eyes lock. Kimball has her helmet tucked under her arm, her dark hair pulled back into a tight bun. The lines of her face are sharply accented, brown eyes full of anger and grief. He’s never seen her look more like a leader than she does now. “I won’t fuck it up again,” Tucker says hoarsely. “I won’t—we’ll do _better,_ we can _do_ this, I can do this—”

“You misunderstand me,” she says. “There isn’t going to _be_ a next time.”

“What?”

Half the hallway has fallen silent at their words and Tucker isn’t sure why. The two of them aren’t yelling, or at least he thinks they aren’t. He can’t quite be sure.

“You heard me,” she says, voice sharp and sure. “There isn’t going to be a next time. I won’t risk the lives of my soldiers for another suicide mission after we’ve already lost so many.”

“Kimball,” Tucker says, struggling to keep his voice calm. “We have to _go_ for him—”

“We don’t even know for sure that’s where he _is!_ ”

“ _I_ know.”

They turn to see Dr. Grey in the doorway of the infirmary, brushing several stray curls out of her eyes with her forearm. “Andersmith’s alive,” she says. “We’ll need to keep an extra-close eye on him, but he’s stable.”

“Ohhhhh, _good_ , that’s good,” Caboose mutters, slumping in relief on the bench next to him. “Good. That’s…that’s very good.”

Kimball has a hand pressed absent-mindedly to her chest, her shoulders sagging slightly in relief. “He’s alive?

“He is.” Dr. Grey pulls her scrub cap off and stuffs it in her pocket, shaking out her curls.

For a few moments, the hallway is silent, all of them reveling in relief. Tucker waits, holding his breath. _She didn’t mean it,_ he tells himself, even as he knows it isn’t true. _She didn’t mean—_

“We cannot afford another catastrophe like this, Captain Tucker,” Kimball says quietly. “We are stretched too thin as it is and we can’t afford to lose any more lives.”

“But we can afford to lose Wash?”

He keeps his voice light and controlled, but catches Grif and Simmons exchanging a glance out of the corner of his eye anyway.

When she speaks again, her voice is oddly flat and blank. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“It _is,_ though.” Tucker pushes off the bench, suddenly unable to sit still. “You’re saying that we should just _leave_ him there in that fucking _hellhole_ —”

“We don’t even know he’s _there!_ ”

 Dr. Grey speaks up again. “Wash is in that city, General Kimball. I’m sure of it.”

“You’re not,” Kimball says. “You saw the color of the walls and heard a beeping sound that—”

“A _trilling_ sound—”

“—That you could hear _anywhere_ —”

“—did you know that I have a photographic memory—”

“—I’m not sending more of my soldiers to _die_ based on your _memory!_ We need good, hard intelligence and even then—”

“What are you saying?” Tucker says loudly. He clutches his helmet tightly in his hands and tries to focus, to _breathe._ “Just fucking tell me what you’re saying!”

“I’m saying that it’s over,” Kimball says sharply. “I’m saying no more. No more.”

The hallway erupts at her words, and Tucker can make out only bits and pieces of the conversations. Britton’s, “ _But General Kimball, you can’t!”_ wails high above the crowd, and Kimball gives her head a firm shake.

“I won’t leave him there,” Tucker says. He can feel himself shaking. “If you think I’m going to fucking sit here and wait until you give the okay—”

“I don’t,” Kimball says. “I don’t expect that at all. You’re done.”

“And what the fuck does that mean?”

“It means that you’re no longer a Captain in this army, Tucker. Not like this. You are unfocused and reckless—”

_“THEY’RE TORTURING HIM!”_

His helmet is at the opposite end of the hallway and Tucker has no memory of it leaving his hands. They’re shaking, trembling at his sides and he clenches them into tight fists. “They’re _torturing_ him,” he says again. “For weeks—for _three weeks_ —and you—standing there—telling me I’m unfocused? What the fuck else am I supposed to focus on? He’s—I have to—”

“Tucker,” someone whispers, but Tucker doesn’t know who and he doesn’t care.

“I’m going to get him,” Tucker says. “I don’t care how many fucking tries it takes, I’m going. I won’t leave him there.”

“Then go,” Kimball says. “I wish you all the luck in the world. Take a Pelican, take some of our supplies, and _go_. If you find him, you will always have a place here, but until that day…you’re _done._ ”

She stops, glancing around at the hallway. Everyone is silent, watching and waiting, and her eyes turn to steel. When she looks back at Tucker, they are shuttered. “I will not risk the lives of this entire army for one man.”

Something settles in Tucker’s chest at those words:  a deep, quiet calm where before there was nothing but pain and rage and guilt. He nods at her once, hard, and turns on his heel to retrieve his helmet.

When he reaches the end of the hallway, Caboose is already holding it out to him.

They turn as one. They don’t say a word as they make their way to Blue Team’s hallway to grab Caboose’s things, then to Red Team’s hallway so Tucker can grab some stuff from his drawer in Donut’s room. They make the rounds to the armory to get some extra weapons, to the mess hall for some ration bars, to the infirmary to check in on the survivors.

The room is quiet and still, filled only with beeps and buzzes and the hushed whispers of the loved ones holding vigil. Tucker walks past every bed, fingers brushing against the frames, trying not to let the feelings of guilt and shame suffocate him. There had been a moment, in the earliest days of Wash’s captivity, when he’d advocated for only himself and the other sim troopers and Carolina to go for Wash. The sentiment had been vehemently opposed from both sides, Feds and News alike. “This isn’t like before,” Jensen had told him, eyes huge behind her glasses. “We’re ready this time, we are!”

“Wash is our friend too,” Ali had added. “And so are you. Stop being so _weird_ about this.”

Tucker had relented. He knew, deep down, that they couldn’t save Wash alone, and like it or not, they were all a part of this army now. But looking around at the wounded, at his friends, so still and silent, he can’t help feeling that he and the others should have left before any of this had happened.

Tucker lingers at Ali’s bed, his stomach swooping sickeningly at the sight of his arm, severed just above the elbow. There’d been an explosion and he’d been trapped, his arm stuck under a gigantic cement pillar that wouldn’t budge no matter how many people tried to lift it. It had been awful, every part of it: the screaming, the slow realization of what had to happen, the anguish in Ali’s voice as he’d looked square at Tucker and told him to just _cut it off already_ —

The smell of burning flesh as Tucker’s sword had cut so _neatly_ through the armor and skin and bone—

 _“I’m sorry,”_ Tucker whispers, and although Ali does not stir, Perry does, lifting his head up from where it was resting against the edge of the mattress.

“Are you leaving?” he asks tiredly, as if he’d expected it, and Tucker nods.

Perry glances at where Patil is asleep in a chair on the other side of Ali’s mattress, then at Ali himself, before holding something out to Tucker. “Here.”

Tucker glances down to see a pair of dog tags, the dull silver standing out sharply against Perry’s dark skin. Fitz’s dog tags. “Dude, I can’t fucking take those.”

“I’ll be expecting them back when you bring Wash home,” Perry says. He shoves them into Tucker’s hand insistently. “For luck. I’d come with you, but…”

He looks again at Ali, and Tucker nods. “I know. Don’t—you don’t have to _explain._ I know.”

They bump fists and Tucker turns to where Caboose is waiting for him in the infirmary doorway. They still do not say a word as they go to the Pelican bay, Tucker stops short when he sees every last one of the Reds standing there, Donut and Sarge and Grif and Simmons and even Lopez. Carolina’s there too, conversing with them in low tones, Epsilon close to her side. “What the fuck?”

“Look,” Grif says. “Let’s just skip over the part where we have a moment, and get our asses in the Pelican, shall we? Everybody good with that? That work for everyone?”

There’s a brief, awkward pause before they turn to get on the ship. Tucker thinks he should say something, but he’s only ever been good at scraping words up off the ground and for this, they could never be enough. Grif takes the Pelican out of the base and in moments, they’re high above Armonia.

Tucker does not look back.

“Well,” Sarge says, settling back comfortably in his chair. “Guess it’s high time for—”

He sits back up suddenly, one hand going to his helmet. “Whoa, hold on there lil’ lady…” he pops the seals on his helmet and sets it on the ground. “Go on, tell the others.”

“I know how you can get to Wash.”

Dr. Grey’s voice bubbles over the radio, and Tucker’s heart skips a beat. “Wait, really?”

“I just don’t know why I didn’t think of it before!” Dr. Grey pauses. “Well, I _did,_ I just didn’t think it would _work_ —but then I remembered, in my sophomore year when I was running late to class—I had a _super_ huge test that day and I had to scurry—well, anyway! I have a genius plan!”

“Which is?” Tucker asks urgently, his heart pounding.

“Right.” Dr. Grey clears her throat. “We can’t avoid those land mines and snipers, there’s just no way for you to go around them.”

Dr. Grey pauses and they all lean in closer to Sarge’s helmets, desperate not to miss her next words. Tucker is holding his breath, everything in him hoping, hoping, hoping—

“But you can go _under_ them.”


	27. Chapter 27

Captivity is so very cold.

The cold, and the discomfort it brings, have been at the forefront of Wash’s mind ever since he fought his way back to lucidity. It impossible to ignore; the pain and stress and confusion somehow seem secondary to the all-encompassing chill that sucks the warmth straight from his body.

It had been cold in that hospital room, Wash reflects, although it wasn’t so much unbearable as it was annoying. He’d been more focused on separating memory from lie, and the cold had eventually given up on clamoring for his attention and settled into a background buzz.

Now, though, lying on the cold cement of the floor, the cold is unbearable.

 _It’s pretty anticlimatic,_ Wash thinks dully. After all that he’s been through in the last several weeks—in the last several _years,_ really—his death should have been the result of crippling insanity or brutal torture or perhaps a daring escape attempt. He shouldn’t go out like this, shivering so hard he can barely see. Surely the universe owes him that much.

Wash can’t remember how long he’s been here. He has fuzzy memories of being uncuffed from that chair and half-dragged, half-carried to this basement room, and dropped on the floor. He remembers coming to with his cheek pressed into the cement and an alarming amount of blood pooling beneath his chest, and he’d forced himself to sit and bind the wound on his chest with the tattered remains of his scrub top and a good portion of his right pant leg. The bleeding had eventually stopped, although Wash doesn’t remember when.

They haven’t left him there to die—there’s an MRE shoved through his door every morning and Wash devours it, stomach howling, limbs shaking with exhaustion and hunger. It isn’t clear why the change from hospital beds to a cell was so abrupt, but Wash suspects that a part of them gave up the illusions once they realized their lies weren’t taking.

Or rather, he _wants_ to suspect that. Somehow, Wash doesn’t believe it’s going to be quite that easy.

 _They have another ace up their sleeve,_ Wash thinks, although he has no idea what it could possibly be. Wash had been half-conscious for most of that video recording, but he knew that Felix and Locus hadn’t asked a single question or made a single demand from Armonia. The whole thing, as much as Wash hates to admit it, was a bait.

He _also_ hates to admit that it probably _worked._ The largest part of him wants his team to stay where they are, safe and secure behind the walls of Armonia. Deep down, he knows it’s a fool’s hope. Wash has seen enough of the Reds and Blues’ ad hoc missions to know exactly what they’d do in a situation like this one.

 _Perhaps it’ll work_ , he thinks to himself, before the larger part of his brain furiously dismisses this thought. It’d be a waste, such a _waste_ , if they came to rescue him.

With the days dragging on as they are, it just seems unlikely that he’ll last that long.

 _Lame way to go,_ Wash thinks again, as another violent shudder wracks his body. He presses his back to the wall and warps his arms around himself.  His body is slick with sweat as he curls in on himself, and he glances down at his bandage with a frown. It should be changed soon, although with _what,_ he has no idea. Perhaps he could at least reverse it.

It takes him a few minutes to unknot the ratty scrub top and peel it away from the wound, wincing as the fabric sticks. He inhales sharply as he glances down at his chest and gets a good look at the wound. It is no longer bleeding, but he can tell even in this dim lighting that the whole area is red and inflamed. _Infected_ , Wash realizes, and immediately abandons all thoughts of rebinding it. It needs to breathe, although he isn’t sure what good that’s going to do in this tiny, dark dirty cell. Between the smell of his own waste in the corner and the fact that he hasn’t’ had a shower in at least a week, ever since he broke that last illusion, it certainly isn’t the healthiest of environments for an open wound.

Wash tries not to think of it, tries not to think of what the clear signs of infection means for the way he’s shivering and shaking—for the way he’s _feverish,_ he realizes now. Maybe it won’t be the cold that kills him. Maybe it will be the fever or the infection or—

_I’m never going to see them again._

It’s the loudest, clearest thought he’s had in days and it steals the very breath from his body. They were coming for him, his team, of that he has no doubt. They were coming, for _him_ , and he feels equal parts relief and terror at the thought. As much as he doesn’t want them to get hurt, Wash wants to see them again _so badly_ that it _aches._ It didn’t matter, though, what he wanted, because—

_I’m never going to see them again._

He leans his head back against the wall.

Closes his eyes.

Does not let any tears fall.

Does _not—_

* * *

The light burns his eyes when it streams into his cell unexpectedly, and for a moment, Wash cannot see. Someone grabs his wrists and yanks him to his feet, pulling his arms behind his back and cuffing them there. Someone in _armor._ The hard points of it dig into his skin and Wash forces his eyes open.

“Big day, Wash.” Felix’s voice comes bright and cheerful in his ear as he half-drags Wash down the hallway. “ _Biiiiig_ day.”

It takes almost the entire length of the five-minute walk for Wash’s eyes to adjust to the light. He feels sluggish and disoriented, tries to think in simple terms like days and months and years. How much time was he losing? How long was he in that cell for? How long had it been since they recorded that video? How long, how long, _how long?_

One of the guards accompanying them opens a door at the end of the hallway, and Felix shoves Wash in ahead of him. Overbalanced, he hits the ground and rolls himself to a sit as quickly as he can to take stock of his surroundings. It’s a small room, one that he hasn’t been in before, without even a window and only one door.  Felix remains in the room, in full armor save for his helmet, and Wash counts four more: Locus, the Counselor and two other space pirates.

Locus takes one look at him and makes and agitated noise. “That wound is _infected_.”

“Huh?” Felix glances down at Wash. “Oh yeah, I know. So?”

“Felix, _look_ at him. He’s _sick_.”

“I’m sorry, am I missing something here?” Felix snaps. “He’s a _prisoner._ He’s _supposed_ to be sick and injured. Christ, it’s like you’ve never _done_ this before—”

“He’s supposed to be _alive,”_ Locus growls. “If he dies now then all of our time and resources will have been for nothing.”

“Exactly! Control is already unhappy with just how _much_ time and resources we’ve spent on this _stupid_ project. You’ll forgive me if I didn’t want to waste anymore.”

“Antibiotics and a simple bandage could have prevented—”

“Look, I’ve barely even seen him before today, alright? _We_ agreed to leave him alone in that room for three days, alright, if you were so _concerned_ you could’ve checked on him yourself—”

“Gentleman,” the Counselor interrupts, and they both turn to glare at him. “Time is of the essence here. While it would be disappointing if we lost Agent Washington because of his injuries—that could have been easily prevented, it is true—we will still be able to heal him once we are certain that our plan has worked. Felix does have a point. It would be foolish to waste anymore medical supplies on Agent Washington when we are not even certain that he will survive this next phase.”

“Good,” Felix grunts. “It’ll be like Christmas fucking morning. At least then we don’t have to endure another shitty rescue attempt.”

Felix says it so casually that Wash knows he’s being baited, but it takes him too long to wipe his face clean of emotion. He doesn’t even know what he looked like—something caught between hope and fear, most likely—but it’s too late and Wash just gives up pretending. “You’re lying,” he says. It’s the first time he’s spoken in days and he’s startled at just how weak and slurred his voice sounds. “There was no rescue attempt.”

“Oh, I _assure_ you there was,” Felix says delicately. “A real mess it was, too. I think they lost, what, a dozen soldiers? _Pretty_ embarrassing, if you ask me. Your boyfriend has himself all worked up into a dizzy, and you should _see_ Agent Carolina’s sorry excuse for leadership these days.”

“Tucker’s not—” Wash closes his mouth with a snap, choking the words off as quickly as they came, furious with himself for making such a stupid mistake. He cannot afford them, not here.

Felix latches onto his words immediately, a grin splitting across his face. “Who said anything about _Tucker,_ hmmm?”

Wash says nothing, but it’s too late, and Felix pushes his advantage. “He’s a mess, you know. _Absolute_ embarrassment to the whole army. You know it’s _his_ fault that they lost so many soldiers? So worried about getting his fuckbuddy back that he’s willing to let other soldiers die.”

“You’re lying,” Wash says again.

Felix’s face lights up even further. “Oh, _am_ I? Locus, we still have those recordings from their failed mission, yeah?”

“We do,” Locus says, sounding as if he couldn’t be less interested.

Felix bends down to scoop up his discarded helmet, putting it back on and sitting cross-legged on the floor. He remains there for about five minutes before pulling it back off, triumphant, and placing it on the ground between him and Wash. “I knew I had it somewhere—listen to this.”

Wash inhales sharply as Tucker’s voice fills the room, frantic and desperate. _“Wait! Wait, we can’t just fucking leave, we’re right here!”_

_“Are you serious?” Grif’s voice now, incredulous. “Tucker, we’re getting slaughtered out here! Kimball wants us to pull back now!”_

_“I know, I know, but….” Tucker sucks in a breath. “Look, I—I can do this, okay? I—you take the Pelican and—”_

_“Don’t you even say it!”_ Donut. Wash’s heart is pounding, the sounds of their voices cutting straight through the fog in his head and leaving it clearer than it’s been in weeks. _“We’re going with you.”_

_“Okay,” Tucker says again, voice grim and determined. “Okay. Ali and I are going to take the left side of the building, and circle back around—”_

There are several seconds of heart-stopping silence before the explosion comes so loud that the radio pitches, and then there’s yelling, and screaming, and _Tucker_ is _screaming_ —

“Turn it off,” Locus says suddenly.

Wash cuts himself off just in time, the _no_ choked off into a tiny little noise of protest. He tears his gaze away from Felix’s helmet to look at Locus, who is observing him with far more interest. “It was foolish,” Locus says slowly, “for them to try to come for you. They are growing sloppy.”

“They’ve _always_ been sloppy,” Felix says, waving a dismissive hand. “They’ve always been fucking losers—”

The door opens again with a bang and Wash turns sharply, fists clenching even though he knows he cannot raise them in front of his face. Locus’s words echo once again through his mind— _it must be frustrating for a soldier of your caliber to be rendered so helpless—_ and Wash hates them for their truth.

A man in scrubs drags a gurney through the door, its metal edges banging off the doorframe, while a second pirate follows dragging a set of machines. This pirate leaves as quickly as he came, but the man in scrubs lingers, leaning down to fiddle with the machines. “It’s about time,” Felix mutters, and the medic shoots him a nasty look.

“Excellent,” the Counselor says. Wash does not turn away as the Counselor turns to look at him. “Put him on the table.”

Wash fights. He struggles with every ounce of physical energy he has left, but his energy is minimal, his strength is nearly gone. They are in armor and he has none, and he cannot stop them from forcing him onto the gurney and securing him there, binding down his wrists and ankles and chest with thick leather straps. The gurney is set at a slight incline, with a strange headrest that appears hooked up to the machine.

The Counselor turns to the man without armor, who is still adjusting the machine next to the gurney. “Is the chip ready?”

“Yeah yeah,” the man says absently, “it’s ready.”

He moves behind Wash then, something cradled in his hands, and Wash feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “It won’t work,” he says to the Counselor. “Whatever you’re planning, it won’t work. _Nothing_ you’ve done has worked the way you thought it would, has it? You thought you knew me but you _don’t,_ you were wrong—”

“Agent Washington, how much do you know about nanotechnology?”

Wash glares at the Counselor, gritting his teeth together. He won’t do it, won’t let the Counselor play with him, won’t answer his mocking questions like a good soldier. He won’t, he won’t, _he won’t—_

“As it just so happens,” the Counselor continues, unconcerned with Wash’s lack of an answer, “Dr. McGill is a former nanoscientist.”

Wash can only assume that Dr. McGill is the man securing something to the headrest behind him. The Counselor gives the man a brief nod, then looks back at Wash. “He was imprisoned for somewhat….unethical practices. It is thanks to him that we have been able to construct the elaborate alternate reality that now exists side by side with your real memories.”

“I know that was a lie,” Wash reminds him, unable to resist despite his former promise to remain silence. “I know that was a lie, I know that fucking hospital room was a lie, I know that _you’re a liar_ —”

“For now,” the Counselor says mildly. “Tell me, Washington, what do you know about nanotechnology as a form of healing mental illness?”

Wash knows quite a bit, but he sure isn’t going to tell the Counselor that. There had been a morning, not long before his captivity, when Simmons had spent the entirety of breakfast one morning rattling off everything he’d just read about nanotechnology. Wash had known a bit, mainly about how nanobots could be used to restructure serotonin and dopamine receptors, but when Simmons had mentioned using them as a way to heal mental trauma, Wash had been intrigued.

He’d done his own reading and found that they could be used to break down negative emotional responses to past trauma, and that they’d had great success in helping victims of PTSD. Dr. Grey had shut it down immediately when he’d brought it up to her. “It’s a highly invasive procedure,” she’d told him. “And it’s _very_ dangerous with your implants.”

“You may not know this,” the Counselor says, watching him closely. “But if the nanobots are altered in a certain way, they can eliminate not only emotional responses to certain memories, but the _memories_ themselves.”

“Jesus _Christ,_ ” Felix mutters, disgusted. “You could _not_ have made that reveal more anticlimactic if you _tried._ Let me do this part, you’re ruining it.”

The Counselor looks slightly annoyed as Felix elbows him out of the way to Wash’s side. “What the good Counselor _means,_ ” he says, “is that our little nanobot friends here can burn up your memories. Poof! Just like _that._ I’m told that they light before your eyes before they’re gone—and I don’t mean _temporarily_ gone. I mean _gone_. Get it Wash? We can tell these little bots to destroy whatever memories of yours we want.”

They’re lying. They _have_ to be; Wash has never even heard of such a technology, but Felix sounds so smug and the Counselor looks so pleased and Wash thinks, _here it is, the ace._

Something must show on his face because Felix leans closer, one hand resting on either side of Wash’s body as he tilts his head. “That’s right,” he says, voice soft and filled with venom. “ _Allllll_ of those memories you hold so near and dear, _gone._ All that time you spent with those morons, gone. All of it. When these things are done with you, you’ll only remember what we want you to.” His hand comes up to grip Wash’s chin, fingers squeezing hard into his flesh. “You won’t even remember your own name, if we tell them to take it away.”

Wash does not break his gaze.

“Now,” Felix says, letting him go and wandering around to the back of his gurney. “We _could_ just shoot these little fuckers into your bloodstream. But they’d take far longer to go into effect that way—you’d fight them, see. What we need to do is overstress your system.”

There’s a click and a hiss just behind Wash’s head, and he jerks his head up and away from the headrest. “Ah, exactly,” Felix says. “ _Exactly_ like that. I’d keep your _right_ head there if I were you, Wash. See, because when you let it rest, our little nanobot friends here are going to be clipped right into those neural implants of yours. Besides,” Felix says, coming around the front of the gurney again. “This way you have a bit of time to relive those favorite memories, before they’re gone forever.”

“So you see,” the Counselor says, “it appears that I do know you quite well after all.”

The edges of his smile are sharp and vicious, but Wash does not look away. He has cracked too many times in front of this man and he will not allow himself to do it again.

“I’m almost tempted to stay and watch this part,” Felix says with a sigh, “but I think it might be best if we leave you to your own thoughts, huh Wash? Give you some _time_ with those memories.”

They leave the room one by one. Locus is the last to exit, his gaze lingering on Wash before he closes the door.

It occurs to Wash that he might be the last human being he ever lays eyes on.

 _No,_ he thinks fiercely. No, no, no. He can do this. All he must do is keep his head up, keep it from leaning back onto the headrest. Easy. _Simple._ He has been through so much worse than this. Felix had already told him that they were trying to overstress his system, to make him panic and struggle and go crazy. He just has to stay calm, and not let his head fall back onto that chip until…

Until when?

 _Don’t think about that_ , he tells himself, shoving down the part of him that insists they’d leave him here forever if need be. He can’t _think_ like that, can’t think about the end. He must break time off into smaller intervals, and get through this, minute by minute.

For the first five minutes, Wash does not move a single inch. He keeps his head carefully up and away from that headrest and makes his breathing even and deep. When he does need to move, he keeps his motions small: a careful roll of his neck, a quick flex in his shoulders. He distracts himself by tensing and relaxing each of his muscles, one by one, so that they don’t turn numb. Keep the blood flowing, as he’d been taught in…Basic? In Freelancer? Well, he’d been taught it at _some_ point in his RTI training, he just can’t remember which—

_Soon you won’t remember at all._

_Stop it._ Wash squeezes his eyes shut and tries to focus on keeping his muscles warm again, but the ache in his neck is becoming harder and harder to ignore. If he could just find a way to rest his head for a moment—

_No, no, no._

This is no place for resting. Resting is for home; resting is the feel of Tucker’s head on his chest and every blanket they could get their hands on. Resting is a team at his back, is the chaos and laughter and yelling that is his family. He must not rest until he is back with them.

He thinks this desperately, despite knowing deep down that he isn’t going to last that long, despite having convinced himself that he was never going to see them again. He thinks of every single one of them, of the Reds and the Blues and of Carolina and Dr. Grey, even of the cadets and the Feds, of the look on Britton’s face when he’d set up that stupid viewing of Grey’s anatomy, of Ali snickering over his drawings.

He thinks of them all, and he says goodbye.

He says goodbye to Grif’s real laugh, to Sarge’s stories, to the sound of Caboose taking things apart just to put them back together. Says _good-bye_ to red hair dye on his forearms and Carolina’s head cradled in his hands over the sink, to wine and cheese with Donut, to eating chocolate with Emily in her office on the Fed compound, to sulking with Lopez on the cliffs, to Simmons hacking that holographic lock at the archives. Says _good-bye_ to Tucker, to his smile, to his energy, to the way his body moved when he had his sword in his hand, to the way he lit up when he talked about Junior.

He thinks of them all until he cannot think of them any longer.

He hates that it’s something so simple that keeps him from replaying their voices inside his head. The act of holding his head up has become impossible and agonizing, the pain in his neck spreading to his shoulders and creeping down his spine until every part of him is shaking. He finds a way to hike up his shoulder and rest his head against it, but this is only bearable for a minute or two at a time before he has to move again. He finds a way to rest his head on the very edge of the headrest, but panics when he starts to drift and almost lets it fall onto that chip.

Minutes or hours or days. He does not know how long he lays there on that gurney. There is no window to let the light in and he has lost so much time already. Everything inside him has been refocused around the pain and the panic and when he closes his eyes, all he sees is red.

 _Everything_ is red, everything, fire and blood and molten lava, in his brain, behind his eyes. The muscles in his neck are screaming and straining and for all he knows, he’s already let his head fall and let these _things_ into his head and maybe his memories are being ripped away, one by one; maybe it’s already _happening_ and he doesn’t even _know_ it.

He panics, shaking the memories loose from their boxes just to make sure they’re still there, and they _are_ —Tucker’s smile and Caboose’s laugh and Carolina’s eyes and all thirty-seven of Sarge’s zombie survival plans—he tries to pack them back up tight but he’s shaking and he doesn’t do as neat of a job as he usually does and the memories are all over the floor and the floor is red and sticky and cracking beneath his feet and everything is red, red, red—

“Wash!”

He hears his name as a whisper, a cool brush against the fire in his skull; he turns and squints through the fog of red and—

_Blue._

The color cuts through the hazy clouds and he lets it fill his eyes. Blue is important, blue is the color of his most cherished memories and he _knows_ these colors, aqua and cobalt, aqua and cobalt. His vision expands to see the shape holding the colors and they are the most precious shapes of all. Blue armor means his team, blue armor means his family, blue armor means _Caboose and Tucker—_

They cannot be here, he knows that, but when the aqua becomes armor and the armor becomes _Tucker,_ when Tucker rips off his helmet and drops it on the ground and reaches for him, everything in Wash tilts in his direction. He feels the back of his skull brush dangerously close to the chip and he freezes, and he isn’t even sure if Tucker is _real_ but he must tell him to stop, stop, _STOP—_

“Red, _red_ —”

Tucker freezes next to his gurney, holding his hands palm up and staring at Wash with wide eyes. Something in the way he stops moving makes Wash pay more attention, makes his gaze focus on Tucker’s face, makes his heart thrum, and the monitors are reacting, beeping and buzzing, and maybe _, maybe_ it’s real, _maybe_ he’s here, _maybe, maybe, maybe—_

“Red, red, red, _redredredred_ —”

He can’t manage another word, it’s the only one rattling in his head, the only one streaming from his mouth. Tucker doesn’t move his body but his lips are moving. Wash tries to quiet the rushing noise in his head to hear what words are sounding but there’s not enough room for quiet, there’s no room for anything but the _red._   Movement catches his eye, darker blue and just as beloved, and there’s _Caboose_ , barreling in through the door and bounding over to him. Wash cannot see his face, cannot make out the words but he can hear the smile in them, cleaving the clouds in two, letting the blue stream into his head.

“Wash!” Caboose yells, and it’s not so much the words but the sheer volume of them that convinces Wash that this is real, that they are real. Only Caboose in the flesh could yell at that pitch, _loud enough to wake the fucking dead,_ as Tucker was so fond of putting it. They are real, they are here, and Wash wants to weep in relief but all that happens is _red._

Caboose is leaning towards him and Tucker’s arms shoots out to halt his progress, but it’s too late: Caboose wraps his arms around Wash, around the straps, around the entire gurney, and he lifts the whole thing up and hugs him tight and Wash doesn’t even care that the plates of Caboose’s armor are digging into his skin, because Caboose, Caboose, _Caboose—_

They all hear the click.

The monitors skip _, one—two—three,_ and they hold the silence, reverent, breathless, terrified.

The gurney falls back to the ground with a clatter as Caboose backs away, hands pressing over the mouth of his helmet.

Wash almost doesn’t care, as the monitors start to scream, as his eyes roll up and a cool rush of fire sweeps his skull. He’s been starved for his friends, forced himself to believe that he’d never see them again, and while he would have liked to feel Tucker’s lips on his one more time… _well._ One last hug with Caboose, the very first one to call him friend in so very long, isn’t a bad way to go.

Not a bad way to go at all.

**END PART TWO.**

 


	28. Chapter 28

**INTERLUDE**

_Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door_  
_Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door_  
_Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door_  
_Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door_

* * *

 

Her hands are magic, and they are meant for making miracles.

When she was a little girl, no more than five, she’d found a bird with a broken wing beneath the elm tree in her yard. The poor thing was so still that she had almost stepped on him in her play. She’d dropped to her knees when she noticed the bird, resting her cheek on the grass to look him in the eye. He was a sun-crow, a bit smaller than the ones that typically appeared on Chorus in the spring, with feathers as thick and luxurious as black velvet. His beady black eyes stared right through her, and she could see it clear as day, that the bird had given up.

She’d gathered the tiny creature in her hands and brought him to the sunroom, his heart thrumming against her fingers. It had taken copious amounts of research and the better part of the day to construct a little splint for the bird’s wing, but she had done it. “Oh, honey,” her mother had said, when she’d walked in on the scene. “That bird’s wing is broken.”

“I know,” Emily answered, without looking up. “I’m fixing it.”

She _did_. It had taken time, and patience, but the wing had healed. The bird’s broken indifference had turned to trust, and the trust had turned to determination, until the day came that he was flying tentatively across the sunroom and she had known it was time. She’d cupped the bird in her hands and carried him outside, where he’d spread his wings and soared away into the blue.

“It’s a miracle,” her mother had breathed, one hand on her chest, the other shielding her eyes from the sun. “Emily, you’re a _miracle._ ”

Nearly fifty years later, and it is still her clearest memory: the bird’s frantic heartbeat, pulsing in her hands, and the joyful lines he had made against the bright morning sky when he’d taken flight. _She_ had done that for the bird, had helped and healed him until he was strong enough to fly; had done that with her own two hands.

Her hands are _magic—_ she has known it ever since that day— but they are _useless_ to her now.

She clutches tight to her datapad, leaning forward so that her hair falls over it like a curtain. It is the only light source in this tiny storage closet, and after another quick glance to make sure the door is locked, she refocuses her gaze. “Tucker. _Talk to me._ What’s going on?”

“We’re getting our fucking asses kicked, that’s what’s going on!” Tucker’s voice is breathless and shaky. She cannot see his face when he throws a quick glance down at the datapad he’d mag-clamped to his forearm, but she can imagine his expression perfectly. “Christ on a _cracker!_ I knew it was too easy getting in here!”

Emily privately thinks that their infiltration into the hospital had been anything _but_ easy—it had been sheer dumb luck and her remarkable memory that had gotten them to Wash—but she doesn’t argue the point. “You just need to get back to the freight elevator, it’s a straight shot to the Pelican from there—Grif is already in position—”

“Yeah, we’re fucking _working on it_ —”

Another round of gunfire cuts off Tucker’s words, and she can hear him cursing as he returns fire. Wash is just visible from her angle, slung over Tucker’s shoulders, and she winces as Tucker spins around sharply. “Tucker, be _careful_ with him—his head—”

“I’m _trying!_ ” More gunfire. “I can’t—can’t fucking shoot and—argh, _goddammit_ —Caboose, I need you to hold him while I kill these assholes and if you fuck anything else up _so help me God_ —”

“I can’t.” Normally Caboose’s whisper is louder than his normal voice but now, Emily can barely hear him. “No. No. I can’t.”

“Caboose, for fuck’s sake! _You have to carry him!_ ”

“I, um. I don’t think it’s a good idea. For me. To do that.”

“Well, neither do I, but you have to! I gotta use my sword and I can’t exactly do that and hold Wash at the same time!”

“I don’t want to hurt him,” Caboose mumbles.

Tucker groans. “Okay, just— _Jesus Christ, Caboose_ —look—ohhh, never mind, thank _God_.”

Emily taps her fingers impatiently against the datapad, feeling more useless by the second as Tucker’s voice goes weak with relief. “What? _What?_ ”

“Carolina’s here,” Tucker says. “ _Okay._ Okay, okay, okay—let’s just— _okay._ Sarge, is that fucking elevator ready?”

“’Course it is!” Emily flicks aglance over to Sarge’s side of the screen, heart swelling with pride as she watches him pry the elevator doors straight open. Red Team had wreaked a truly glorious path of destruction to the elevator, and she’s never been prouder of her boys. “It was no easy task getting here in a hurry, but I _suppose_ I should’ve accounted for Blue Team running fashionably late—”

_“Just hold the fucking elevator!”_

Emily watches as they make their way across the compound, and in less than five minutes, Tucker and Caboose skid into the elevator. “Where’s Carolina?” Simmons asks.

A loud _BOOM_ sounds several floors below them. “She’s taking the stairs,” Tucker says. “Clearing a path. Grif, are you ready?”

“Dude, I’ve been circling for twenty _minutes_. You’re the ones taking your sweet ass time getting out of that place—”

His words are drowned out by a loud boom, and the rest of the elevator ride is tense and loud. Emily has no idea what Carolina is doing to those space pirates, but she hopes it’s something truly awful. When the door opens, Emily catches a flash of teal before Carolina turns to them. “Tucker _, run_.”

The world is a blur as Tucker goes, taking off across the field. There are people running with him but Emily cannot see them, her vision restricted to Tucker’s and Sarge’s swinging datapads. “Go,” she breathes. “Go, go, _go_ …”

There is yelling and confusion and gunfire as the Pelican drops down, doors opening for Tucker to dash in. He sets Wash down and turns in a half crouch in front of him, sword up and angled towards the door. “Come on, come on…”

“That’s everyone! _Go!_ ”

Emily gives them thirty seconds to catch their breath before rapping on the screen of her datapad impatiently. “ _Tucker._ Let me see him.”

“Right,” Tucker gasps. He rips off his helmet, scooping his hair out of the way. “ _Holy_ shit. Right. Okay…”

Tucker unclips the datapad and sets it on the floor, half-lifting Wash off the ground and supporting his head as if it’s made of glass. Emily practically lunges for the screen, pressing her palm against it as if she can fall right through to them. “Let me see his implants…hold him still, now…”

She needn’t have asked: Wash is limp and boneless against Tucker. Emily squints at his implants, breath catching in her throat. It isn’t the blood or the burn marks or the melted plastic wiring that make her heart skip a beat, although they do a nice job of setting her head buzzing with anger. It’s the tiny black chip snapped neatly into his implants that makes her blood run cold.

“Nanotechnology,” she says in wonder, fingers brushing across the screen. “Oh my goodness.”

“What does that mean?” Tucker asks urgently. “’ _Oh my goodness.’_ What the fuck does _that_ mean?”

“Is he bleeding?” Emily asks. “From his ears, or his nose?”

“No,” Tucker says after a pause. “Uh, _why?_ ”

“Gonna have to agree with Tucker on this,” Grif calls from off screen. “What the fuck kind of fucked up question is that?”

“And he hasn’t said anything? Or cried out?”

“No, he’s just…” Tucker glances down at Wash nervously. “He isn’t even _moving._ ”

“Is that good?” Donut asks hopefully.

Emily doesn’t see the point in lying to them. “Nothing about this is good. Epsilon, I need you to run a scan on his implants. Tucker, let me see the wound on his chest while he’s doing that.”

She hears the collective gasp before Tucker’s camera focuses on the wound, red and inflamed. “Right. I need you to give him those antibiotics I gave you and _is there a reason you aren’t scanning, Epsilon?_ ”

Epsilon jolts, tearing his gaze away from Wash and staring at her as if he’s just realized she’s there. “Right…scanning. On it.”

“ _Quickly,_ please,” she says impatiently. She turns to Tucker and resists the urge to roll her eyes, as now _he_ is the one staring at Wash as if he’s going to be sick. “Tucker! The antibiotics!”

“Right,” Tucker mumbles. “Right, let me just…”

She can see his hands trembling as he withdraws the syringe from his armor pouch and wrap the tie she’d given him around one of Wash’s forearms.  He holds the needle against Wash’s skin, eyes wandering over all of the wounds there, before drawing the needle back. “Fuck—I—I can’t, I can’t do it—”

“Give it to me,” Sarge says gruffly, snatching the syringe out of Tucker’s hands. Emily watches him insert the syringe and depress the plunger—textbook, simply _textbook_ —before straightening. “There. What else we got, darling? Alcohol?”

“Yes yes, alcohol,” she says. “Tucker has some. That wound needs to be cleaned and bandaged.”

Tucker doesn’t move, just stares down at Wash. “He looks really fucked up,” he says nervously. “ _Really_ bad…”

Emily wants to scream. She does not blame Tucker or _any_ of them for the frozen looks and shaky limbs. They shouldn’t be there, none of them, not while Wash is like this. _She_ should be there, with her hands on him, healing hurts and working little miracles. _She_ should be there, and she’s _not._

“Tucker,” she says sharply, when he continues to sit frozen. “The alcohol. Give it to Sarge.”

Sarge moves to take the tiny bottle of alcohol from Tucker’s hands, but Tucker holds the bottle out of his reach. “No, I’ll do it. I can do it….I just fucking pour this shit on it, right?”

“That’s right,” Emily says calmly.

“Okay, okay…like, all at once, or—”

_“Tucker-just-pour-it-on-his-goddamn-wound!”_

Tucker empties out the bottle onto Wash’s wound while Emily scowls, impatient. “Good. _Good._ Now, take that bandage and secure it with the gauze—”

Tucker’s movements are slow and shaky as he brings out the gauze and medical tape. This time, when Sarge reaches for the items, Tucker does not resist. Emily opens her mouth to give him instructions, but Sarge is working efficiently, smoothing the gauze over the wound, and she keeps her mouth shut. _“No one likes a backseat surgeon,”_ he'd teased her once, and she can see that he certainly does not need one now.

“Perfect,” she says, as Sarge secures the bandage. “Now, Epsilon— _did he just move?”_

The empty alcohol bottle is falling from Tucker’s hands as he reaches for Wash. “Wash? _Wash?_ ”

“Let me see him,” Emily says. She sets the datapad down carefully before her crossed legs when she realizes she’s gripping it almost tightly enough to crack the screen and leans forward, hands splayed out on either side of it. “Let me _see_ him!”

Someone angles the datapad so that she can see the scene more clearly: Donut, standing off to the side with his hands pressed to his chest. Epsilon, hovering just in the corner of the monitor. Tucker, half-bent over Wash, hands still carefully supporting his head.

She can see _Wash_ , head lolling as he stirs. His head is canted towards her when his eyes crack open, little slivers of sky against his pale skin. They flutter open and closed, open and closed, before they widen and begin to focus.

Her hands are magic but they are useless to her now, because she is _here_ and Wash is _there_ and Wash is in pain, is in absolute _agony_. She can see it in his eyes before he starts to shudder, can hear it in the hurt little noise he makes before he starts to scream.

_“Emily, you’re a miracle.”_

She’d thought it strange, the way her mother had phrased it all those years ago: that it was Emily _herself_ who was the miracle, not the act she had performed, not even the sight of the bird flying away high above the trees. It was almost surely a slip of the tongue, but Emily had remembered it all these years: the words, and the way they had fallen soft from her mother’s mouth.

Her hands are magic but Wash does not have her hands. He only has a whisper of her, separated by miles upon miles and a thin glass screen.

It will have to be enough.

She is, after all, a _miracle,_ and that will have to do.


	29. Chapter 29

**PART THREE**

_Mama, wipe this blood from my face_  
_I'm sick and tired of the war_  
 _Don’t know if it’s night or if there's a sun rising high_  
 _Scared of knockin' on heaven's door_

* * *

Twenty-four days.

Twenty-four days and Tucker will never let himself forget a single one.

He had been sick with fear, crazy with panic, light-headed with fury, but it was nothing, _nothing_ compared to the sheer terror he feels now, watching Wash stir. He’d known getting Wash back wasn’t the end of the road—the video had certainly driven home _that_ point—but it had never occurred to him that they might lose Wash the moment they got him back.

He tries not to think of how the _CLICK_ of that chip snapping into Wash's implants had sounded so very final.

Wash’s eyes flutter open and closed, open and closed, and Tucker places a careful hand on Wash’s cheek and turns his head to face him. “Wash?”

Wash doesn’t answer, and he hears Simmons exhale shakily from across the plane. “Ohhhh, God. I can’t take the suspense!”

Tucker glances up at Epsilon, who hasn’t moved a single inch since Dr. Grey asked him to run a scan. “Well? Did you find anything?”

“ _Working on it_ ,” Epsilon says tightly. “I’m—I’m not even sure what I’m _looking_ at…”

“The nanobots will be small, _very_ small,” Dr. Grey says. “It’s possible they have not begun their work yet, but you should still be able to see their intent.”

“There’s some sort of… _firewall,_ or something…”

“Great,” Tucker says. “ _Really_ great. Firewalls! In his _head!_ This is _such_ fucking bullshit—”

“Tucker,” Carolina says suddenly, leaning in, “be _quiet_ —”

He looks at her, affronted. “Well, _excuse_ me for—”

"Tucker?"

But it's not Carolina interrupting him this time, it's Wash. Relief crashes through Tucker, and he waves a hand at the others as if they were the ones shouting. "Wash? _Wash!_ Fucking _hell,_ you are scaring the _shit_ out of us."

Wash's eyes are roving over them all, still dazed but this time with an air of trying to find their focus. "Tucker?" he says again, and Tucker puts a hesitant hand on Wash’s face again and tilts his chin until their eyes meet. 

"Right here," he says, and Wash's eyes finally sharpen.

There's a moment of clear recognition, followed by relief, before a dawning horror sets in, and Wash lets out a sort of strangled yell, his hands flying up to his head and fisting in his hair. "Get it out, get it out, _get it out!_ "

"Epsilon!" Tucker roars. "What the fuck is going _on?_ "

Epsilon is flitting anxiously about Wash. "Hang on, I'm trying to- to expand my scanning parameters—”

"Well, scan faster- _Wash, no!"_ Tucker lunges as Wash starts clawing at his neural implants. He grabs Wash's wrists, tugging them away from his implants, which are still intact, thank Christ. Wash presses his palms to his temples, hunching forward with a groan, and Tucker firmly covers Wash's hands with his own in case the guy gets anymore bright ideas about ripping out hardware directly wired to his fucking brain.

Tucker doesn’t glance at Dr. Grey, but he can hear the tense impatience in her voice. “Epsilon, _what do you see?_ ”

"I think..." Epsilon hesitates. "Yeah, they definitely put something in his head…”

"Like an AI?" Carolina asks sharply, at the same time that Tucker says, "no fucking shit, dude," followed by Donut's, "something in his  _brain_?"

"If you'd all  _stop talking,_ " Epsilon grits out. "I will  _find out_  and I will  _tell_ you."

They all shut up and silence falls, punctuated only by the agonized sounds coming from Wash. Tucker's still got his hands pressed to the back of Wash's and can feel him shaking so violently that he's surprised he hasn't passed out yet. _He said your name,_ Tucker reminds himself. _He knows who you all are. He will be okay. He will be okay. He will be—_

“Nanobots,” Epsilon says, sounded stunned.

“The good doctor already said that!” Sarge says impatiently. He waves his hand in a get-on-with-it gesture. “What _kind_ of nanobots?”

“They…oh my God.”

His words send a chill straight down Tucker’s back, because Epsilon sounds _scared_ and hearing that kind of fear in Church’s voice is fucking terrifying. “What? _What?_ ”

“They’re—they’re targeting his memories.” Epsilon says. His avatar fizzles out for a moment and when he reappears, his voice is a little stronger. “They’re programed to destroy them. Not—not all of them, though…it’s like they’re targeting certain ones…”

“They’re _sentient?_ ” Dr. Grey asks wonderingly. “I’ve never even heard of such a thing.”

"But—but  _how_ would they even do something like that?" says Donut. He's taken his helmet off and is staring imploringly around the room, as if waiting for someone to tell him that this is all just one big joke. “How do they have that kind of technology?”

"I think the better question is _why?_ " says Simmons. "It's such an _elaborate_ —"

"Are you fucking serious? I can't—I don't _care_ why!" sputtered Tucker. "At least not right now, anyway! Jesus fuck, we can analyze this later, right now we just need to get them out, I mean, _look_ at him—"

"Alright, alright," snaps Simmons, his voice pitching high with stress. “Stop yelling at me!”

“How can you expect me not to yell when—”

“—so _sick_ of you snapping at everyone like we didn’t all just risk our lives—”

“ _Oh my God_ I never said that you didn’t risk—”

“Everybody shut up!” Carolina snaps, and the arguing falters. “Dr. Grey. Can you heal him?”

“Well, certainly,” Dr. Grey says. “But seeing as how I’m _here_ and he’s _there,_ it’s going to be just a _teensy_ bit tricky.”

“Right…” Tucker glances down at Wash. He’s still shaking, eyes half-closed, but he’s quiet now in Tucker’s arms save for the occasional gasp. “Can we just….keep him calm or whatever, until we get back to Armonia?”

“We don’t even know if going back to Armonia is an option,” Carolina says, her voice edging towards bitterness. “In case you’ve forgotten, we got kicked out.”

“No, we didn’t,” Simmons says. They all turn to glance at him. “ _We_ didn’t get kicked out. _Tucker_ got kicked out. _We_ can still bring Wash home.”

Tucker grits his teeth, but all he says is, “Kimball _said_ we could bring him back—”

“And what did Doyle say?” Simmons asks. “Do we know what he thinks about all of this?”

“Doyle doesn’t have the balls to say shit to any of us,” Grif calls from up in the front of the Pelican, “and Kimball’s not going to turn us away if we show up with Wash. There will be a revolution if the News catch wind of that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dr. Grey says impatiently. “Of course you’re bringing him back here. _I’ll_ talk to Kimball and Doyle.”

“Right,” Tucker mutters. He rubs his thumbs along the back of Wash’s hands, reassuring himself as much as Wash. He’s here. He’s _safe._ They have him, and they’re going to fix this. “So, these things might not even be active yet?”

Tucker startles as Wash yells and jolts so severely that he tears out of Tucker’s grasp. He half-falls onto his side, retching hard, one hand clutching at the back of his head. “Oh God,” he chokes out, his voice filled with such horror that it turns Tucker’s limbs to lead. “Oh God, oh _God_ …”

“Right,” Dr. Grey says briskly. “Well, that answers that question. Those need to come out _now_. There’s only one thing to do—”

But Tucker is turning wildly to look at Epsilon. “Can _you_ get them out of him?"

Epsilon stares at him. "Get them out?"

“ _Of his head,”_ Tucker emphasizes, and he grits his teeth hard when Epsilon continues to stare at him in silence. "Fuck, I don't know, _deactivate_ them! Like you did with Freckles!"

"Whoa, you want me to- what, jump into his head? Go poking around?"

"Something like that, yeah!"

"No," says Epsilon, his voice rising. "No _way!_ I can’t!"

“Tucker’s right,” Dr. Grey interrupts. She has her palm pressed up against the screen again and is staring at Wash, her eyes huge. “They’ve already started their work and it’s all we’ve got. Epsilon, you _must_ get in there. _Now_.”

“I _can’t!_ ” Epsilon says again. He’s moving away from Wash, from all of them, until his avatar is backed up right against the wall of the ship.

"You can’t, or you won't?" says Tucker angrily.

Epsilon lets out a humorless laugh. "Clearly you're forgetting what happened the last time Washington and I shared a brain.”

"Oh, that was fucking _years_ ago," Tucker says wildly, and everyone on the Pelican shoots him an incredulous look. He’s reaching, and they all know it, but Tucker pushes forward anyway. “ _Epsilon_ , come on—”

"Oh, years ago, was it years ago? So, you think he's, what? Completely over it? That he's fan- _fucking_ -tastic? Healthy as a horse? Tell me, Tucker, how many nightmares have you guys woken him up from in the time you've known him?" Epsilon barrels on as Tucker opens his mouth and closes it again. "Well, those nightmares are all thanks to me, dude."

"Not all of Wash's laundry list of issues are  _thanks to you_ —"

"I'm not saying they are!" Epsilon is half shouting now. "I'm saying that I'm the reason he has such a hard time dealing with them! I'm the reason his head is so goddamn unstable in the first place! He fucking _hates_ me! And now, you want me to go jumping into his neural implants without his permission? While he's already got God knows what going on inside there?"

Carolina finally speaks up. "He doesn't hate you, Epsilon."

"Well, we may have moved from hate to dislike to wariness, _fuck,_ I don't know, Carolina," says Epsilon. "All I know is it took us years to have any kind of normal conversation, and we're gonna be back to fucking square one if I do this."

“Do you run the risk of damaging yourself, if you do this?" Carolina asks, and okay, Tucker kind of feels like an asshole for not even thinking of that before now, because Epsilon is his friend, too, no matter how fucking stubborn he gets, no matter how tense things have been between them lately.

"No," Epsilon says. "No, I don't think so. But— aside from the fact that feeling me in his head will totally _freak him the fuck out—_ I don't know how deep these things have gone into his brain." He glances around at them all watching him, and sighs. "It's a _bad idea._ I could do more harm than good. Odds are that I _will._ "

"And what if you don't?" asks Simmons. "What happens then? What happens if we wait until we get back to Dr. Grey?”

“Waiting is _not_ an option,” Dr. Grey says urgently. “He won’t _make it_ back here—”

At that moment, a violent shudder rips through Wash. Some of the strength that's been holding him upright seems to fail, and he sags to the side, his forehead hitting Tucker's chest. Tucker's never seen Wash look so vulnerable in all the time he's known him, not even after Sidewinder, not even after the nightmares, and he can't _stand_ it another _fucking second_. He looks up at Epsilon, desperate and pleading. "Church,  _please_."

"He'll never forgive me," Epsilon says helplessly. He turns to Carolina and repeats himself, desperation coloring every word. " _He'll never forgive me,_ C."

“We can tell him I made the call,” Tucker says. “Fuck, if _that’s_ what you’re worried about, blame me!”

“Then he’ll never forgive _you_ , either,” Epsilon says fiercely. “He’ll _hate_ you, he’ll tell you he would’ve rather _died_ than let me in his head again! Is that what you want? For him to hate you for making this call?”

“I…I…” Tucker glances wildly around the ship, little slivers of doubt worming their way into his mind. He can’t stop running his hands over Wash’s skin, through his hair, across his forehead and cheeks. _Would_ he want that? To die, rather than risk letting Epsilon implant into him again? _Would he?_ “I…fuck, I don’t know, _I don’t know!_ ”

“Enough,” Dr. Grey says, and they all fall silent. “ _Enough._ Tucker, you’re not making this call. _I_ am. Epsilon, _do it._ ”

“I…can’t…” Epsilon says through his teeth. “I can’t do it, I’ll—I’ll break apart, right inside his head! I can’t, I _can’t_ —”

“You _have_ to,” Dr. Grey says. “He will _die_ if you don’t.”

“Wash is strong,” Epsilon says wildly. “He can hold on until we get to you, he can fight these fucking things, Christ, he’s like, practically unkillable—”

“Epsilon, _listen to me._ This isn’t just about Wash holding onto everything that makes him who he is. Every second that those things are in his brain is one more second that he runs the risk of having a stroke or a brain aneurysm. His brain _physically_ cannot handle the amount of stress that the nanobots are putting his nervous system through.”

“It’s—it’s a ten hour plane ride, right? We can just—just keep him calm, like Tucker said—”

“ _We don’t have ten hours,”_ Dr. Grey says urgently. “We don’t even have _one_.”

The silence that follows is the loudest Tucker has ever heard.

“I don’t want Wash to die,” Caboose says, speaking for the first time since they boarded the Pelican. “If, um. If he dies, see, it will be my fault. And I…I don’t want Wash to die and have it be my fault, so please Church? Please will you do the scary thing?”

Epsilon looks at him for a long moment before turning to Carolina. “C.”

“I know,” Carolina says. “ _I know._ But…”

Epsilon looks at her. Looks at Caboose, at the Reds, at Tucker and Wash. He walks over to him tentatively and stands there for a moment, hands clenched into fists, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Oh fuck, fuck, _fuck_ …”

Just then, Wash _screams,_ and it’s worse than any noise he’s made so far: it sounds as if something is being torn out of him, and when he clamps his hands over his ears and pulls them away to paw again at the back of his head, they are bright red. Tucker glances up at Epsilon, terrified, as Dr. Grey shouts, “Epsilon, get in there _right_ now!”

“I’m sorry, Wash,” Epsilon whispers, but the blood seems to have strengthened his resolve. He looks one more time at Tucker, then Carolina, before turning his focus on Wash.

Epsilon vanishes.

“Ollie, hold him down,” Dr. Grey says, and Tucker has no idea who the fuck she’s talking to until Sarge moves around to Wash’s other side.

“C’mon son, let’s turn him over,” Sarge says.

Tucker helps him roll Wash over so that he’s lying on his back. There’s been no change in Wash’s appearance yet, and Tucker can’t decide if he thinks that’s a good thing or not.

“Do you still have that piece of leather I gave you?” Dr. Grey asks, even as Sarge pulls a leather strap out of one of his armor pouches.

“What the fuck is _that_ for?” Tucker asks, alarmed, as Sarge eases Wash’s jaw open and carefully inserts the leather between his teeth. “Is that _really_ necessary—”

He isn’t ready for it when Wash tries to jerk upright, but Sarge is, pressing Wash’s shoulders into the ground. Wash’s eyes are squeezed shut as he struggles, the noises rumbling from his throat sounding like something a trapped animal might make. Tucker’s going to be sick. Donut is already there, back turned to them as he gags into the corner of the ship and Simmons pats his back awkwardly. Caboose is watching with his hands pressed over his mouth and Grif is staring determinedly out the windshield of the Pelican and—

Tucker feels himself pushed out of the way as Carolina knees next to him, her hands pressing down firmly on Wash’s other shoulder. “Tucker, get something soft for his head. There should be an emergency blanket and pillow in the first aid kit.”

Tucker stumbles over to the first aid kit as fast as he can, yanking out the pillow and half-crawling back over to Wash. He kneels at Wash’s head and tucks the pillow carefully underneath it. Wash is still thrashing so hard that it’s kind of pointless, but he makes sure that whenever Wash presses his head back into the floor that the pillows is there. Carolina and Sarge are each holding onto one of his arms, keeping him steady. They are in armor and he is not, but Wash still struggles as if his life depends on it and Tucker flutters his hands uselessly around Wash’s head. He’s shuddering, movements sharp and jerky, and Tucker’s not convinced that he isn’t already having a stroke.

“Tucker, talk to him,” Dr. Grey urges from the monitor. “Calm him down.”

Tucker swallows hard, inching a little closer to Wash’s head. “Wash…Wash, come on, you have to…to calm down.” He glances up at Dr. Grey when Wash doesn’t begin to settle. “I—I don’t think he can hear me.”

“You have to _make_ him hear you,” she says.

“I—I can’t—what do I talk about?!”

“Anything,” Dr. Grey says. “ _Anything!_ Just let him hear your voice!”

Tucker looks around wildly at all of them, watching them expectantly before forcing his gaze back down to Wash. “Okay, okay, okay. Fucking _hell._ ”

He takes a deep, sharp breath, rips off his gloves, and lifts Wash’s head up off the ground, resting the pillow in his lap and easing Wash’s head down onto it. After a moment’s hesitation, he rests his hands carefully on either side of Wash’s head. This time when Wash jerks away, Tucker holds him fast. “Wash,” he says, softer this time. “Wash, you’re okay. It’s me. I’ve got you. We all came and got you, yeah? You’re okay.”

Wash falters for a moment before jerking again, an agonized noise escaping his throat, and Tucker tightens his hands in Wash’s hair and leans down over him. “Wash, listen to me.” His face is hot and he’s painfully aware of everyone watching them, but he ignores them, just keeps his eyes on Wash’s until they finally open and lock onto his own. “You have to stop. You’re going to hurt yourself and that’s gonna suck, okay? You’re okay. I _have_ you. I have you _right_ here.”

Wash’s eyes squeeze shut once more, but his struggles grow marginally less intense. Tucker removes the piece of leather from his mouth and rubs his thumbs along the sides of his jaw. “C’mon, breathe. I’ll count, okay?”

He counts. The numbers fall heavy from his mouth, one by one, the only noise in the ship. Wash’s eyes flutter open on ten, eyes meeting Tucker’s. “Tucker?”

Wash does not have to speak the words for Tucker to understand the question. “This is real,” he whispers back. “I swear to God, it’s real. I’m here. I’m right here.”

Wash exhales slowly, the tension melting out of him bone by bone. His head grows heavy in Tucker’s lap, arms falling back against Sarge and Carolina, and when his eyes finally close, they do not reopen.

They do not reopen, and Epsilon does not reappear.

* * *

Wash is so limp and still after his struggling that Tucker can’t stop checking his pulse for the rest of the Pelican ride back. Sarge and Carolina ease off of his arms slowly, but their caution is moot. Wash looks as if he’ll never move again. Tucker sits there for a while with Wash’s head in his lap before finally glancing up with a shaky breath.

Everyone is still staring at him, and he feels raw and exposed. “What?” he snaps at Carolina, who happens to be the nearest person, and she starts slightly.

“Nothing,” she says, defensive. She looks at Dr. Grey. “Are you sure there’s nothing else we can do? Maybe would should try to wake him up.”

“No,” Dr. Grey says. “No, _absolutely_ not. Startling him now could very well prove disastrous. The nanobots are very likely tied directly to his sympathetic nervous system, and any more stress or panic could cause—”

“Alright, alright,” Carolina says. She climbs to her feet, starting towards the head of the Pelican. I’m going to go see if Grif can get this thing to go any faster.”

“Uhhhh,” Grif calls as she approaches, “The answer is _no,_ Grif _can’t_ \--”

“Why not?”

“Do you want us to get into a plane crash?”

“What I _want_ is—”

Tucker tunes them out and looks down at Wash, feeling useless and desperate to do something. He’s stretching an arm out towards the first aid kit, straining to grab it without letting go of Wash when pink armor fills his vision, and Donut lifts up the case and hands it to him without a word.

“Thanks,” Tucker says, and Donut nods, jaw clenched hard. His eyes are red-rimmed as he looks at Wash, and Tucker can see his scar through the tear tracks in his foundation.

“We should clean him up a little,” Donut mumbles, voice thick with emotion. “He’s a mess.”

“Yeah,” Tucker says. “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.”

“I’ll help,” Donut says, and kneels next to Tucker.

“You…dude, you don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t.” He sniffles hard. “I _want_ to.”

With that, Donut pulls out a small bottle of water and a towel, tugs Wash’s arm across his leg, and begins wiping away some of the dirt and grime. Tucker’s watches him for a moment as Donut dabs carefully at Wash’s wrist, where the skin is red and scraped raw. Tucker pulls Wash’s other arm towards him and mimics Donut’s actions. The cuts are still open in some places, cracked and bleeding from where Wash had clearly been fighting against restraints.

Tucker tries not to think of the last time the two of them had slept together, just before the mission, but the memory rises anyway: Wash’s wrists, bound to Tucker’s headboard, as he’d gasped and whined and _begged_ for Tucker’s touch, body hot and responsive and tugging against the restraints. Tucker couldn’t take his _eyes_ off him, at the way Wash had looked underneath him, at how Wash had melted under his every touch, leaning into Tucker’s hands and mouth, every ounce of tension gone from his body. Tucker had been _happy_ , so happy that he had done that for Wash, that he had the power to make him relax and _stop._ They _had_ something there, something _good,_ and now—

Tucker swallows hard, fighting down the waves of nausea and moving on from Wash’s wrist to clean the rest of his arm. He and Donut work in silence, wiping the blood from his torso and the dried urine from his legs, and Donut helps hold Wash up while Tucker carefully cleans the blood from the back of his neck. He winces as he gets his first clear look at the damage done back there, the burns and the cuts and that fucking _chip_ that Tucker wants to rip out himself. He contents himself with pouring the water bottle over the top of Wash’s head and scrubbing his hands through his hair, the water running down his forearms.

Donut unearths a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt from seemingly nowhere, and shrugs when he notices them all looking at him incredulously. “What? I thought it’d be nice for him to have some clean clothes to change into! I mean, _obviously_ , they weren’t gonna let him keep his armor—”

“His armor,” Tucker breathes, and a glance around proves that he isn’t the only one who just thought of this. “Fuck!”

“There’s plenty of armor back in Armonia,” Simmons says. “We’ll find him something.”

“I will get it for him,” Caboose says, and he stands as if he’s going to do it right the fuck now. “I will get Wash’s armor.”

Simmons rolls his eyes. “Caboose, don’t be an idiot—it’s just armor—”

“But that was _Wash’s_ armor,” Caboose protests, sounding as if he’s about to cry. Which, great, just _great._ “I painted the parts yellow for him, and um, it is blue under the grey and I think that is important to Wash, so I will get it for him and—”

“Caboose,” Tucker says, exhausted. “Sit the fuck down.”

Caboose looks at him and Tucker turns away, busying himself with tugging the fresh shirt that Donut has handed him over Wash’s head. He doesn’t think he can look at Caboose without screaming yet and after a moment, Caboose sits back down against the wall.

Tucker and Donut maneuver Wash’s legs into the sweatpants and lay him out on the floor of the ship, emergency blanket tucked up around his shoulders. It isn’t long before Tucker notices that he’s shivering slightly, forehead slick with sweat, so Tucker unsnaps the top half of his armor, leans his back against the wall, and tugs Wash against his chest, wrapping the blanket around them.

He doses off for a while, then jolts awake to frantically check Wash’s pulse. It’s there, beating strong beneath his fingers, and Tucker counts them out. The numbers buzz into his brain, but he counts them out determinedly, into the hundreds, the thousands, and still he does not stop.

He has, after all, had far worse things to count.


	30. Chapter 30

_The setting sun paints the walls of the canyon blood red._

_“Man, this is_ stupid. _”_

_Wash closes his eyes and counts to ten before popping the seals on his helmet, setting it down next to him in the grass. “What’s stupid?”_

_Tucker’s helmet has been long discarded, thrown across the way ten minutes earlier, and he casts an exasperated look at Wash, gesturing wildly. “This! This training exercise! I can’t concentrate on these gun disarming techniques with the Reds playing house like, loud as fuck—”_

_As if on cue, Simmons’ shriek of, “HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU NOT TO WASH THE WHITE SOCKS WITH THE COLORED ONES?!” filters across the way. Tucker looks at Wash pointedly._

_Wash sighs, thinking. “Tucker. It is vital that you learn to concentrate even in the most…stressful of situations. There are times in combat when there seems to be a hundred things happening at once, and it is crucial to your survival and the survival of your team that you focus your mind and—”_

_“So, like, do you plan these speeches out ahead of time, or…?” Tucker trails off expectantly as he settles down onto the grass, squinting up at Wash in the sun._

_“What—I don’t—I’m not giving a speech, Tucker, I’m just…” Wash falters. “Talking. I’m just_ talking _to you.”_

 _“You’re_ lecturing _me.”_

_“I am not!”_

_“Dude, you_ so _are.” Tucker vaults to his feet, clearing his throat, throwing his shoulders back and clasping his hands behind his back. “Captain Tucker! It is of the utmost important that you focus on these rifle disarmaments! If you don’t, you will surely die!”_

 _“What—I don’t sound like that—and I don’t_ stand _like that either, come_ on _—”_

_“Pay no mind to the Reds living out their domestic AU across the way!”_

_Wash snorts. “Domestic AU?”_

_Tucker drops the act for a moment and grins at him. “Dude, come on, this shit is like, textbook.” He clears his throat, snapping back into it. “Focus your heart! Clear the cobwebs from the library of your mind! Ready your loins and—”_

_Wash_ giggles. _It’s the only word to describe the sound that just came out of his mouth, and when Tucker blinks at him incredulously, Wash starts laughing, head thrown back, hands clasped to his chest. “R-ready your loins?” he gasps when he can speak._

 _He falters when he sees the way Tucker’s grinning at him, soft and pleased and vaguely stunned, as if he’d just gotten the wind kicked out of him. Tucker hastily adopts a more somber expression when he notices Wash staring. “Yeah dude, like, for real—any day you’re gonna make me start doing push-ups with my_ dick _—”_

_Wash snorts again, laughing, and he says—he says—_

What does he say?

He had said something funny next—well, not _that_ funny, but it had made Tucker laugh and Wash remembered thinking that laughter looked good on him, that Tucker had a face made for smiling. Wash had _said something_ , but he can’t quite remember what, and the longer he dwells on it, the more difficult it becomes to recall just what he was trying to remember in the first place. He had been thinking about the canyon, and the blood red sun, and how he and Tucker had been working on…

What had they been working on?

He can’t _remember._ It’s strange, because the memory had just been pulsing clear as day inside his head, and now he can’t even remember what he was _thinking_ of—

The memory burns once more, bright as daylight. Wash reaches for it, relieved, but before his fingers can brush across its beaming surface, it shatters, turns to sandy dust, and disappears before his eyes.

Wash stands there frozen, hands outstretched. Both the memory and its box are gone, gone without a trace, and he can’t remember what it was but he knows it had been an _important_ one—

_You name is Agent Washington and your memories go in the light blue box—_

Oh, no.

_No, no, no._

Wash spins, eyes wide and searching, but he cannot find the memory. It is _gone_ and he turns in a circle again, frantic, eyes desperately seeking out all his boxes. They are still there, but something is wrong, horribly wrong—he has had his memories shaken loose before but this is _different,_ this is—

His ears catch a low, buzzing hum and suddenly the air is black, wrapping around him with a howl. Wash presses his hands over his ears as the howl continues and the air turns thick and tar-like until everything suddenly brightens, another blue box falling from its shelf. Wash lunges forward to catch it, but it hits the ground and the memory fills his mind—

 _Connie is laughing, sitting on the edge of Wash’s make-shift skateboard ramp. “Alright, here’s the deal. You teach me to do_ that, _and I’ll teach you to throw knives.”_

 _“You will? Really?” Wash frowns. “Hang on,_ this _is what you want to learn? Skateboarding?”_

 _“It’s_ cool, _” Connie says, breathless, and she looks so earnest that Wash’s own cheeks hurt from grinning. “You look_ cool. _”_

_“I do?”_

_“You do.” Connie stands. “You knooow…I was thinking. Maybe you and I could teach each other some_ other _stuff, as well.”_

_“Other stuff? Like combat stuff?”_

_“Not exactly.” Connie grins, pushing herself to a stand and stretching. “You goof. Come over here and—”_

What?

Come over here and _what?_

“ _No,_ ” Wash gasps. “No, you can’t _have_ that, you _can’t_ —”

The memory burns bright and shatters, turns to dust, and the air burns thick and tar-like once more.

Wash is on his hands and knees with no memory of how he got there. He tries to say it again: _no, no, no_ —but the air is stale and swampy and he can’t see, can’t _think_ —

Another memory tumbles from the shelves: dark blue, one his memories as David. _He is running through a field of yellow sunflowers on his grandfather’s farm, playing hide and seek with his sisters. There is a hiding place just up ahead, and he—_

The memory brightens before vanishing as well.

_He is standing underneath a canopy and Allison is walking towards him. She is grinning and winking because he’s crying already, and when she reaches him he takes her hands in his and—_

And what?

 _I don’t care what,_ Wash thinks suddenly. _I don’t care what, because that isn’t mine._

Instead of trying to gather the memory towards him, he pushes it away, pushes it towards the black and howling mass surrounding him. “Take it,” he gasps, the words faint and choked. “You can— _fucking_ — _have it_ —”

Just like the others, it brightens before drifting away.

 _Get up,_ he screams at himself, and forces himself to a stand. Before he can fully formulate his plan, another memory tumbles from its shelf: Tucker, and Rockslide, and—

 _Tucker's still rummaging somewhat automatically in their cupboards until he finds the sugar bowl, and he slams it in front of Wash without a word, glaring fiercely at Carolina. "Well, excuuuuuse us, but you're gonna have to do a little better than_ that. _"_

“No—no,” Wash growls. He slams the memory shut, boxes it back up and puts it away, his head reeling. “No, no, _no_ —you’re not taking that—”

_The sugar bowl is strangely heavy against his palms, and he cradles it almost reverently, trying to figure out just what's so important about this thick glass bowl and it's snowy, sweet filling. A sudden wave of fondness for Tucker crashes over him, and he tries to dissect it, to put the why of it into words, and all he comes up with is this: Wash's family was lost to him years ago, his friends are long gone, and his new team is still learning how to trust him—_

_but he does, apparently, have someone who knows how he takes his coffee._

_"Carolina," he says, "get out."_

No. They weren’t taking this memory from him, whatever these things were. They were not taking Rockslide and the sugar bowl and Tucker. He locks it away again, and before the darkness can shake it free and tear it to pieces, Wash lunges for one of the green boxes and dumps one of those memories out instead.

_Naomi is glaring at him fiercely in the bathroom. There’s red hair dye all over the sink and all over her hands and face, and he tries to still the thudding of his heart. It’s not blood, just hair dye, and his fear rapidly turns to fury._

Wash shoves it at the black mass and it devours it greedily, ripping the memory apart. He hurls another one at it, of Naomi’s first gymnastics meet, something that he was never meant to see anyway. Wash edges himself closer to the blue boxes, putting his back to them. They were not taking them. He will throw everything else away, he will give up _everything_ else but—

It grows more and more difficult, as time stretches on, to keep the memories safe. They tumble free from their boxes time and time again, and although Wash can scoop them up, he is exhausted, they are falling from his fingers, he is—

The air seems to expand somehow, and he squints through the blackness. He has fallen again to his knees, forearms, pressed into the ground as he concentrates with everything he has, but he can’t _see_ anything—

Panic. It explodes in his brain with no warning, a panic separate from the attempted destruction of his memories. His body and brain recognize the source before he does, something instinctual kicking his nervous system straight into fight or flight mode. Fight or flight. Fight or flight. _Fight or—_

_You should have run, Wash._

He cannot run; flight is impossible in this place. He has spent the past five years trying desperately to escape his own thoughts and knows that it is something he can never do.

He knows that there is nowhere to run to.

Wash gathers every single memory in his head close to him, scattering boxes on the floor, and shoves the blackness away. He slams a wall up, locking himself and the memories in, keeping the blackness and this new presence out, this presence that feels….

Familiar. Everything suddenly feels so familiar; there is something lurking just outside the mist and it has _been here_ before—

“Wash? Where are you?”

Wash presses his hands against the transparent wall he has just erected. The effort that it takes to keep it up is nearly unbearable, and he knows that he will not be able to do so for long but he _must_ because that voice—that voice—

“Wash?”

Through the glass, through the mist, he sees a shape in power armor, searching frantically, a shape that he knows, would know _anywhere_. They could take everything from him, every piece, and he would know that shape. There have been so many lies stuffed inside his head recently, but he knows that this is not one of them. He knows, without a doubt, that this is real, that the shape running towards him is—

“Epsilon?” Wash breathes. The word come out as a question even though he already knows that yes, this is Epsilon, that yes, Epsilon is here, in his head; he is falling apart and _Epsilon is in his head_ —

Something cracks along his foundations as Epsilon turns towards the sound of his voice. He turns, running towards Wash, and something else splinters in the ceiling this time, little bits of dust falling as the nanobots chip away mercilessly at his mind and Epsilon is still moving towards him—

_“NO!”_

Wash screams it so loudly that even the nanobots falter in their work. Epsilon skids to a halt ten feet in front of the wall, palms up and out as he looks at Wash. The black cloud of nanobots are swirling around him, but Epsilon seems unaffected, appearing to hardly even notice them as his hands fall limply to his sides and he glances around. Wash clenches his fists and watches Epsilon take it all in. The colored boxes. The red walls. The shelves and the floor, cracked clean in two beneath their feet, with the gaping chasm that lies just beneath it. Wash cannot see the horror on Epsilon’s face as he turns to face Wash once more, but he doesn’t have to, to know it’s there. “ _Wash._ ”

“Get out,” Wash whispers.

“Wash…”

“Don’t say my name—don’t say anything to me—get out, get out, _get out_ —”

“I…” Epsilon steadies himself. “I came to help—”

“ _GET OUT!_ ”

Everything inside of him shudders are he screams it, bits of the ceiling falling on their heads. “Do you like what you see?” he asks Epsilon, voice unhinged and as vicious as he can make it. He gestures at the floor, the walls, the falling ceiling. “It’s _your_ handiwork, after all.”

“Look,” Epsilon says determinedly. “Do you think I wanna be here? _This is the last place I want to be_ —”

“Then go! _Go!_ ”

“I fucking _can’t!_ ” Epsilon moves closer to him and does not back down even when Wash slams his palms against the glass. “If you think I’m gonna go back out there and explain to Tucker and Carolina and the rest of the Agent Washington Protection Squad that I didn’t even fucking _try_ to help you, then I’ve got news for you: you’re wrong.”

“Help me—help me how? You can’t _help me_ —”

“Actually, yes, I can.” Epsilon considers the nanobots for the first time. “I’m gonna destroy these fuckers.”

“ _I_ can do this,” Wash says. “I can _do this,_ I can take _care_ of this—”

“No, you _can’t_!” Epsilon snaps. “This isn’t about, like, your mental fortitude! These things are miniature computer programs. News flash! You’re not a computer program! I am!”

“You’ll fuck it up,” Wash says wildly. “You’ll—you’ll fuck it up—no! Epsilon— _please_ —I want you to go, please, _please_ —”

“Wash, you have to let me help you.” Epsilon’s voice is frantic again, edging towards pleading as he lifts a hand and knocks on the wall. “You have to take this down. You’re _dying_. These things are killing you— _Wash_.”

“When are we?”

“What?

“I said, _when are we?_ ” Wash shakes his head hard, hands fisting in his hair. “You can’t be here—it’s impossible—they ripped you out, I remember, I _remember_ —”

“No no—Wash—this isn’t Freelancer,” Epsilon says quickly. “We’re on _Chorus_ —”

“I’m going crazy,” Wash mutters. He presses his hands to his face and breathes, in and out, in and out. “I’m going _crazy_ —”

“Wash—”

“ _GET OUT OF MY HEAD!_ ”

Epsilon’s avatar fizzles and for a moment, Wash thinks he’s leaving. As he watches, Epsilon’s armor falls away, disintegrates into nothing, and he’s left standing in front of Wash in the same blue hoodie, the same sneakers, that he wore in Freelancer. “We’re on _Chorus,_ ” Epsilon says again, determined. “Look—look at all of this. These weren’t here last time, remember?”

He gestures, and Wash follows the motion, towards a memory filled with brightly colored shades of red and blue armor. They are seated around a table in the mess hall in Armonia— _on Chorus,_ Wash thinks, _on Chorus, Chorus, Chorus—_ and he and Carolina are laughing as Tucker and Grif launch into another ridiculous story.

Epsilon clears his throat. “They weren’t here this time.”

“They came for me?”

His voice is shaky and vulnerable, like a child’s, disbelieving despite the fact that his faith in them never wavered for a second. Another memory brushes by him, far more recent this time, all bright colors and blurry shapes: the determined set of Tucker’s jaw as he cut through the straps binding Wash to that gurney, before lifting Wash away and carrying him away from that hell.

“Yeah,” Epsilon says, and there is no helmet to hide the way his jaw clenches. “They sure as fuck did.”

Wash swallows, eyes tracking the memory uncertainly as it flits around his head. “I—there’s too much in here, I can’t—”

“Wash,” Epsilon says “I can fix this, but you have to let me. _Please_.”

Wash squeezes his eyes shut, forehead dropping against the glass. “I can’t—Epsilon, I _can’t_ do this again.”

There’s a soft clunk as Epsilon drops his own forehead down against the glass, right against Wash’s, separated only by a thin glass pane. “Fucking hell, Wash. Neither can I.”

The silence that falls between them is the heaviest thing he’s ever felt, and Wash swallows hard. “I don’t want to die.”

“I don’t want you to fucking die either, Jesus _Christ_ —”

“—so I’m going to—I’m going to let you deactivate these… _things..._ and I’m going to fight them.” Wash clenches his jaw hard, pressing his forehead harder into the glass. “But—but if I _do_ die…can you tell them—”

“Wash—”

“ _Thanks_.” Wash takes a breath. “Tell them thanks. They came for me—twice. Tell them thanks. Please? Will you do that?”

“Yeah,” Epsilon says. He clears his throat. “Yeah. I’ll, uh. I’ll do that.”

“And can you tell Tucker…” he stops. He can’t finish that sentence, but Tucker’s face blossoms in his memory, bright and beautiful and brave, and he hears Epsilon’s breath stutter at the sudden warmth that envelops them both. “Can you…can you just _tell him?”_

“I—”

“Please?”

“I—yeah. I’ll tell him.”

“Okay. Then…then okay.”

“You’re so fucking _dramatic_ ,” Epsilon says, pushing away from the wall. “ _Christ._ We doing this or what?”

Wash takes a step back. Shakes his hands out.

Brings the wall crashing down.

He feels _everything_ now: the nanobots, chipping away mercilessly at his mind; the memories, fighting for his attention; and Epsilon, familiar in the worst of ways. Wash hates that it feels as if something has clicked into place, and he can tell Epsilon hates it too, because they can both feel it, can both feel every part of each other.

There’s no time to think on it now. The nanobots swirl around him and for a moment, he can’t see anything. He forces his eyes to stay open and finds Epsilon’s shape through the mist, so much smaller without his armor. Before Wash can do or say anything, the relentless pressure of his memories wins, and one of them spills forth:

_He’s jolting awake form a nightmare, clutching a pillow in his hands. “Ha,” Caboose’s voice says triumphantly. “I told you that would work.”_

_Wash blinks, staring at the pillow that's clenched in his fists and tries to think, but the thoughts are bouncing around his skull too quickly for him to order back into formation-_

_"Yeah, but it took like, ten minutes, Caboose....uh, Wash? You good?"_

_Wash blinks hard, but he still can't make the blurry forms across the room come into focus. "Maine?" he asks, and the blurry forms freeze._

_"...do you not know where you are?"_

The memory brightens and Wash clutches at it in terror, but instead of disappearing, the brightness lingers. This time, it does not break apart—it merely dulls, retreating from the burning intensity to its usual steady warmth.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Epsilons gasps, and Wash blinks the brightness away to see him standing there. “Man, these things are _ruthless_ —”

The nanobots surge, memories pushing against them, and Wash pulls the memories in close as Epsilon does something that makes the black cloud retreat. “Tell—tell me what to do,” Wash gasps. His head is throbbing, and the memory that pushes forward is so intense that it drowns out Epsilon’s words: the _UNSC Tartarus,_ and Felix and Locus, and—

 _“Oh, my God,” the second mercenary moans. “What is this, a therapy session? Look. The bottom line is, the Freelancer and her little sim trooper friends, are turning into real thorns in our sides. We need people to take them_ out. _You in, or what, Agent Washington?”_

_“You can drop the Agent,” Washington snaps. “It’s just Washington, now. You two got names?”_

_“I’m Felix,” the second mercenary says. He jabs a thumb at his comrade. “And that’s Locus. And you, my friend…are hired.”_

Wash makes to push this memory away as he did with the other false ones, but he falters. It’s so vivid, and there’s nothing shaky or wrong with it to suggest that it is false…and yet, _and yet_ …

“That didn’t happen,” Wash whispers to himself, but as he says the words he isn’t quite sure that he believes them. “That…that didn’t…”

The memory does not dissolve, but it dims. Epsilon bats it away, eyes huge behind his glasses. “Uh, _what the fuck was that?”_

“That was—that was—”

_“Did they put that in your head?”_

“I—”

_“How?”_

Wash is unable to answer as the memories from his time as a space pirate tumble loose from their dark orange boxes, pressing in on him insistently. The ones that he had been holding so deliberately close, of Basic, of Freelancer of, most importantly, the sim troopers, are shoved to the background, and as he watches, the nanobots begin to tear away at them. “No,” Wash gasps, but his limbs are sluggish and slow; he is trapped inside this cloud of false memories and he can’t get out, can’t get out _, can’t get out_ —

“Oh!” Epsilon says, and Wash can just barely make out his shape. “ _Oh_ —okay okay, I see what they’re trying to do—hold on Wash, just hold on, I’ve got this _so_ fucking hard—”

Wash has no choice—the press of the false memories on his mind is insistent to the point of pain, and he falls to the ground, trying not to be sick. He attempts to shove them away and pull the real memories towards himself, but they are twisted and tangled together and it is growing more and more difficult to tell them apart. “Your name is Agent Washington,” he tells himself firmly, squeezing his eyes shut tight. “Your friends call you—”

_\--DavidWashLeonardAlphaEpsilon—_

“Your name is—”

But he doesn’t know, he doesn’t _know_ what his name is and he doesn’t know what the color of the stripes on his armor are, he thought they were yellow but that was wrong, they’re _aqua_ —he remembers that, that it was so very important to choose the aqua accents although he couldn’t say why—they had pulled at him so insistently that he had given in—strange, but every time he looked at them he felt—he felt—

_Better._

“Wash?”

Tucker’s voice whispers through his head. Wash knows it instantly and what’s more, he knows that this is not a memory. Wash turns towards it, desperate and searching. “Tucker?”

“—me. I’ve got you. We all came and got you, yeah? You’re okay.”

Tucker is not here but his voice whispers on, desperate and terrified. “I can’t,” he tells the voice. “Tucker, I can’t, I can’t—I think I’m dying, I think I’m gonna die—“

“Wash, listen to me,” Tucker says again. His voice has changed, has deepened into that sure, liquid tone that always makes Wash stop and pay attention. He knows that voice. He trusts that voice, he will do whatever that voice tells him too. “You have to stop. You’re going to hurt yourself and that’s gonna suck, okay? You’re okay. I _have_ you. I have you _right_ here.”

Wash screws his face up tight, pressing his forehead hard into the ground and covering the back of his head. “Okay,” he chokes out. “Okay, Tucker. Okay, okay, okay…”

He does not hear Tucker’s voice again, but he holds onto its echo in one hand and his sanity in the other. Epsilon is cursing fluently in the background, but Wash does not look up. He keeps his eyes shut, focuses on holding onto his name. _Your name is Agent Washington. Your friends call you Wash. **Your friends call you Wash.** _

It is the last inch, the very last piece of himself. He doesn’t know what the nanobots are doing anymore and isn’t even sure if he cares, but he holds tight to this piece and protects it with everything he has. _Your friends call you Wash, call you Wash, your friends call you Wash, Wash, Wash, Wash, your friends call you, your friends, your friends, yourfriendsyourfriendsyourfriends—_

The pressure in his head starts to diminish slowly. There’s a brightness pressing against his eyelids that Wash at first does not dare open his eyes to see, but as the air grows lighter he lifts his head and squints. The nanobots are not gone, but their thick, toxic cloud has become a nearly-transparent mist, spiraling gently inside of a thick glass cylinder that Epsilon is regarding. He’s breathing heavily, hands on his knees, a faintly triumphant look on his face. Wash’s gaze wanders away from him, to the rest of the mess that is his mind.

The walls and ceiling are crumbling, bits of wood everywhere, revealing a nearly-black midnight sky beyond them. There are memories _everywhere,_ brushing past his face and tangling in his hair, their boxes cracked and discarded on the floor. The bloody trench that had been carved out when they ripped Epsilon from him the first time is visible once more, floorboards cracked and ripped away. As Wash watches, one of his memories slips towards it and Wash throws himself forward. His mind tilts as he does so, and he’s barely able to save both the memory and himself from tumbling into the pit.

Wash rights himself, trembling, and falls back heavily on the side of the pit, his feet still dangling over the edge of it. Across the way, Epsilon’s sneakers walk their way into his vision, and Wash looks up to meet his wary eyes. “Uhhh, you wanna back up a little? If I did all that hard work only for you to fall into…whatever this is…I’m gonna be pissed.”

His voice is deliberately light, but it doesn’t mask the deeper fear hidden underneath it, and suddenly Wash is more exhausted than he’s ever been in his life. “Did you do it?”

Epsilon sighs, glancing at the trapped nanobots. “I can’t destroy them. Not without removing that chip—it’s sort of a safety catch—and they can’t exactly remove that on the Pelican. They’re deactivated, though, for now.”

“Can they be _reactivated?_ ”

“Yes,” Epsilon says after a moment’s hesitation. “But only—only if your blood pressure or heart rate rise. So you just have to…stay calm.”

“Stay calm.”

“Yeah—”

“How am I—how can I—” Wash waves a hand at the mess. “How can I stay calm when this…when I…”

“Wash, you have to,” he says urgently. “You have to—look, I can help, we can put this back together, we can _fix this_ —”

“No, we can’t,” Wash says sharply. “We can’t…I don’t want your help, I just…I…don’t you get it? I’m not strong enough for this, not _again,_ I _can’t_ …”

His voice breaks, and he stares into the pit, at the churning red mass far below. Epsilon fidgets nervously, before sitting down across from Wash, his legs hanging over the cavern as well. “Do you know which fragment you were supposed to get?” Epsilon asks suddenly. “If Carolina hadn’t—if you hadn’t ended up with me. Do you know who you were supposed to be paired with?”

“No,” Wash says dully. “No, and I don’t care, either.”

“Eta. It was Eta.”

“Who the _fuck_ is—”

“He was Alpha’s fear.”

Wash stares at Epsilon for a few seconds, waiting for the punchline. It doesn’t come. On the contrary, Epsilon is watching him as if he’s just made some grand revelation that Wash should be happy about it, as if it doesn’t just fucking _figure_ that—

Wash laughs. It starts as a giggle and escalates to a hard, howling thing that leaves him bent at the waist, wheezing for breath. “Oh,” he finally manages. “Of—of _course_ he was. Why wouldn’t they look at me and see that—why wouldn’t they look at me and see—”

“No, Wash.” Epsilon’s voice is so bright and earnest that Wash looks up at him. “No, don’t you get it? You weren’t supposed to get Eta because you’re like—I don’t know, fear _personified._ It wasn’t because they looked at _you_ and saw _fear_.”

“Then why—” Wash grits his teeth, furious at himself for his curiosity. Freelancer was a lie. It didn’t matter what A.I. he was supposed to be paired with. It hadn’t mattered then, and it sure didn’t matter now.

“It was because—people look at you and they’re…” Epsilon falters, his earnest words suddenly halting and clumsy. “They’re just…not that, anymore.”

“Not what anymore?” Wash asks, when it becomes clear that Epsilon is still floundering.

Epsilon sighs. “Not… _afraid,_ anymore. They’re—they feel…”

The silence that settles is almost thick enough to touch, and when Epsilon breaks it, his voice is firm. “Brave. _Wash._ You were supposed to get Alpha’s fear because people look at you and they feel _brave_.”

Wash is shaking his head before Epsilon has even finished speaking. “No. They don’t…I’m not…”

“You _do_.” Epsilon is speaking quickly now, his words rushed and relieved now that he’s articulated it. “You _do._   You—look at all those kids back in the capital. And our guys—Caboose—you didn’t get to see, but he tried to rip that Pelican apart with his fucking bare hands like a hundred feet up in the air to get to you. He’s terrified of heights, did you know that? Always has been. Terrified. And Tucker…with the knives and…and…with _you_ …look, it’s just a _thing you do_ , alright?”

“It’s not.”

“You made _me_ brave.”

Wash snorts. “And look where that got us.”

“It got us _here_ ,” Epsilon says. “Here. On this planet. With _them._ I know it’s been a long road…I know it’s been…a long way down, but…”

Epsilon breathes deep before speaking again. “ _You make people brave_ ,” he emphasizes. “Freelancer may have been a shit show, but every so often, they got something right. They got _that_ right.”

“I don’t feel brave,” Wash says. His throat feels tight. “I don’t…I can’t…I’m so _tired_ , Epsilon.”

“I know.”

“I can’t…” Wash gestures around at his mind, at the memories, scattered on the floor, at the crumbling walls and all the red. “ _I can’t do this again_.”

“Yes, you can,” Epsilon says fiercely. “Yes you fucking _can_. Come on, don’t make me give a motivational speech.”

Wash doesn’t laugh. “It took me years, last time.”

“You were _alone_ last time,” Epsilon says. “Not anymore. You—you’ve got a whole fucking army out there, Wash. You don’t know what they were _like,_ while you were gone. All of them. It doesn’t work without you, Wash. _They_ don’t work without you. Not anymore.”

Wash looks at him for a moment before turning his gaze back to the cavern.  He kicks his feet aimlessly, staring into the red, memories swirling around him, soft and fleeting. There are so many, and it will take so long to put them back in their boxes.

One of them brushes across his face, catching in his hair. It is a lovely shade of sky blue, and Wash closes his eyes, breathing it: Rockslide, and Tucker—

And his hands, clenched tight around a sugar bowl.

_The simulation troopers all skulk back into the kitchen, Carolina brushing past them angrily on her way out. Wash watches them all in turn, focusing on the little differences in their armored bodies: the proud lift of Sarge's shoulders, Caboose's constant fidgeting, the occasional tilt of Simmons' head to the left. Little details that he did not notice at first, that no one would notice at first, but that he's come to recognize over the past month. His hands are still holding tight to the sugar bowl, and he suddenly feels as off balanced and dizzy as he did when he raised his bloody palms to the sky back on Sidewinder. He looks again at the sugar bowl. Thinks of fluffy pancakes, and strong coffee, and birthday cake with chocolate frosting._

_Something falls into place._

Wash lets the memory swirl around him, and when it has played out to its fullest, he gathers it reverently to his chest. He tucks it away inside of its robin’s egg blue box, and places it back on the highest shelf.

He turns to the next one.


	31. Chapter 31

Tucker will remember the Pelican ride back to Armonia as a series of snapshots, of moments flashing bright amidst long stretches of darkness. His sleep is fitful, broken by shards of nightmares and a desperate need to repeatedly check that Wash is still breathing, that his heart is still beating, that he is alive, and _here_ , pressed tight to Tucker’s chest.

During one of these intervals of lucidity, he wakes to find nearly everyone else asleep as well, scattered around the Pelican. Even Dr. Grey has dosed off, one hand propped up under her chin, the other resting just in front of her datapad screen. Aside from Grif piloting the plane, only Sarge and Carolina are awake, standing  by the cockpit and speaking in hushed voices. Sarge’s helmet is off for once, the lines of his face drawn and tired, and Tucker watches as he places a hand on Carolina’s shoulder. After a moment, she reaches up to cover it with her own.

The two of them stand there like that for a while in silence, looking out over the rest of the ship like sentinels, and their steady presence lulls Tucker back to sleep.

He awakens again what feels like five minutes later to Dr. Grey’s voice, speaking softly to Carolina. “We’re in,” Dr. Grey says, when she notices Tucker awake and listening. “I spoke to Kimball and Doyle, and we’re in. Grif is cleared to land the Pelican in Armonia.”

Tucker notices now that the datapad is swaying slightly, and a closer look shows that Dr. Grey is setting a brisk pace down a hallway. “You’re sure?” Tucker asks uncertainly.

“Of course I’m sure.”

A quick glance at Carolina’s face proves that she is not convinced, but Tucker nods, and drifts back into an uneasy sleep.

The next time he awakens, several hours later, it is far less peaceful. A high-pitched, alarmed shriek splits the air, and Tucker startles so badly that he nearly knocks Wash to the floor. Tucker wraps one arm around Wash’s chest and fumbles for his sword with the other, igniting it and angling it in front of the two of them. “Wha? Whas’wrong?”

Donut clucks his tongue loudly in disapproval, and Tucker snaps his gaze over towards the sound. “Tucker! Put that sword away before you ream it _right_ through someone!”

Tucker deactivates his sword but does not lower it. “ _Who screamed?_ ”

“Simmons did,” Dr. Grey says, and the words have no sooner left her mouth than Tucker’s eyes land on Simmons, standing across the ship with a hand pressed to his chest. “After I _expressly told_ everyone that it was _imperative_ that we not startle Wash—never mind—Epsilon, _what happened?_ ”

Tucker’s heart leaps into his throat as he glances around wildly, finally locating Epsilon’s avatar standing in front of the datapad that connects them to Dr. Grey. “ _Church!_ What the fuck’s going on—are you…” His fingers unconsciously find Wash’s pulse again, and he swallows hard. “Are you still implanted in him?”

Epsilon takes a beat too long to answer, and he gives his head a little shake as if to clear it. “I—yeah. Yeah, I am.”

“Is he alright?” Carolina asks. Tucker hadn’t even noticed her crossing the Pelican, but she kneels now at his side. “Are _you_ alright?”

“Yeah,” Epsilon says again, answering too quickly this time. He looks around at their suspicious faces and sighs. “Yeah. We are. I mean—I am. He is. We—it’s okay.”

“Specifics, Epsilon,” Dr. Grey says impatiently, snapping her fingers. “Is he mentally lucid? How much damage did the nanobots do? Were you able to destroy them?”

“No—now hold on!” Epsilon exclaims as she starts to interrupt and Caboose makes a noise of despair. “Let me talk, Jesus _Christ._ I wasn’t able to destroy them, but I _was_ able to deactivate them. For…for now.”

“So they can be _re_ activated?” Tucker asks.

“Yes,” Dr. Grey and Epsilon say at the same time. She huffs, crossing her arms as he glares at her. “Well, get _on_ with it then!”

“ _Yes,_ they can be reactivated,” Epsilon says again. “They’re behind a firewall. I made it as secure as I could, but…the slightest amount of stress or fear, or…hell, _any_ strong emotion could bring the whole fucking thing crashing down.”

“And his memories?” Dr. Grey urges. “How much damage did the nanobots do to them?”

“A bit,” Epsilon says, after another hesitation that feels as if it stretches on forever.

“They actually destroyed some of his memories?” Donut whispers, his hands covering his mouth.

Espilon nods, and Tucker clenches his fists hard in the blanket covering Wash. He doesn’t want to ask it, but—“Which ones?”

“I don’t know,” Epsilon says. “I can’t see them. They’re gone.”

“But, um. But he can get them back, right?” Caboose asks nervously. “I forget things, sometimes, but then I remember them again.”

Epsilon shifts, but when it appears that no one else is going to answer for him, he drops his shoulders and sighs. “This…this isn’t like that, Caboose.”

“It’s very unlikely Wash will be able to recover the memories he’s lost,” Dr. Grey says. None of them miss the sudden loss of warmth from her tone. “I’ll have to see the extent of the damage, but…it’s likely that what’s done is done.”

There’s a long silence before Simmons speaks up. “Were they targeting specific memories?”

Epsilon looks at him in surprise. “ _Yeah,_ I—how did you know?”

“Because this whole thing is ridiculous!” Simmons exclaims, throwing up his arms. “It’s what I’ve been saying the whole fucking time! The resources they would’ve needed to pull this off—it’s _absurd._ There’s no way they would’ve gone through all of this trouble if they didn’t have a _very specific plan_ in mind.”

“He’s right,” Carolina says. “ _Don’t_ tell me you all missed how easy it was for us to get in there.”

They all turn to look at her incredulously. “Easy?” Tucker sputters. “You call that _easy?_ We had to sneak in through the fucking _subway system_ and almost died like fifteen times!”

“Used up my whole stock of shotgun shells!” Sarge adds, holding his gun up to demonstrate. “Can’t remember the last time that happened!”

“ _I_ thought it was pretty easy,” Grif calls from up front.

“That’s because you _weren’t there_ ,” Tucker snaps. “All you had to do was fly the plane! I’m telling you, there’s _no_ way they just let us walk in there.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Carolina says. “I meant—look, I’m not saying they just let us walk in there. If they _had_ managed to kill every last one of us while we were in there, all the better for them. But a plan like _this_ …there’s no way they didn’t have a contingency plan in place in the event that we got Wash out.”

“Okay,” Tucker says slowly. “Well, we got Wash out. What the fuck was their contingency plan?”

“I don’t know,” Carolina says, glancing at Epsilon. “What was it?”

Epsilon suddenly looks uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “They…well, they put something in his head.”

“We’ve established that, Junebug,” Sarge grunts. “They put the nanobots in there to—”

“No, no, something…else.” Epsilon hesitates. “There…there were fake memories in there.”

“ _Fake_ memories?” Dr. Grey asks wonderingly. “You mean, they attempted to construct some sort of alternate reality using his neural interface?”

Epsilon nods. “Bingo.”

“But it didn’t _work_ ,” she says slowly, “and _that’s_ why they had to put the nanobots in his head—to get rid of everything that contradicted the alternate reality.”

“A last ditch attempt to make ‘em stick,” Sarge adds.

“But _why?_ ” Simmons asks. He looks ready to rip his hair out. “Why go through the trouble?”

The tension returns to Epsilon all at once, and Tucker quashes down the urge to repeat the question. “They—they wanted him to think that he was one of them.”

“One of them what?” Tucker asks blankly. “You mean, they wanted him to think he was a super douchey mercenary?”

“Something like that,” Epsilon says grimly. “They wanted him to think that he was working for Charon.”

Tucker snorts. “Bet _that_ failed miserably.”

“It did,” Epsilon says, his voice tight. “But it wasn’t for lack for trying.”

“You mean…” Donut swallows hard, looking faintly ill. “You mean, they tried to _brainwash_ him?”

“That’s exactly what they tried to do.” Dr. Grey says, the cold, lifeless fury returning to her voice. “That’s what this was all about. _They tried to brainwash him._ ”

“Okay,” Simmons says slowly. “Okay, so they try to brainwash Washington into thinking he’s working for Charon, because…?”

“Because if Wash had come back here thinking that we were his enemies, he probably would have taken out half the base before anyone understood what was happening,” Carolina says. She looks at each of them in turn. “And it would’ve _started_ with all of you.”

“Wash wouldn’t,” Tucker protests. “He _couldn’t_.”

“ _Wash_ wouldn’t,” Carolina says grimly. “Whoever they were trying to turn him into probably _would_ have.”

A sudden chill sucks all the warmth from the ship, leaving them looking at each other uncertainly. “But it didn’t work,” Tucker says again, trying to make his voice sound reassuring. “Caboose, stop fucking looking at him like that, it didn’t _work._ ”

“No,” Epsilon says with a sigh. “But we’re not out of the woods yet. There’s still every chance these things could reactivate and start their work again.”

“So…” Tucker looks at Wash. He’s shifted them during the conversation so that Wash is leaned up against his side, head heavy on Tucker’s shoulder. “So he…he’s in there, yeah?”

This time, Epsilon did not hesitate. “He’s in there.”

“And he’s lucid?” Dr. Grey asks quickly. “He understands what’s happening?”

Epsilon laughs a little. “Oh, he understands alright. He fought them like a motherfucker.”

Tucker feels a fierce sort of pride well up in his chest. “Of course he did.”

“He’s Agent Washington,” Simmons says, as if that explains everything.

“Cockroach,” Sarge supplies, and the two of them nod.

“But why won’t he wake up?” Caboose whispers, so quietly that they almost miss it.

“Because…because…well, because his head’s still kind of a mess,” Epsilon says. “These things really did a number on him. Things are a little…scrambled, right now. He’s just trying to put his head back together.”

“Can’t you help him?” Donut asks, but Epsilon’s shaking his head before the question is even complete.

“No. He doesn’t want my help.”

Tucker shifts uncomfortably. “Was he…was he mad at you?”

He can practically hear Grif’s eye roll from across the plane. “This isn’t grade school, Tucker.”

Tucker huffs. “ _Well_ —”

“He wasn’t exactly happy to see me,” Epsilon says. “But we…we took care of things. Alright?”

He isn’t telling the full story, Tucker can tell, but he doesn’t press the issue. Epsilon sighs again. “Look, I’m gonna log back off. Help keep an eye on these things for Wash.”

“Does he know we’re here?” Tucker blurts. He flushes as every eye in the Pelican turns to him. “I mean, does he know we got him out? He doesn’t still think he’s in that…that _room,_ does he?”

The mere thought of that room— _Wash bound to the gurney, eyes wide and red, sweating and shaking, red, red, red, the click the chip had made sealing into his impants, how long was he there, how long?—_ it’s nearly enough to send him into a panic, but Tucker pushes it down. There’s no time for it now.

“No no, he knows you got him out,” Epsilon says, his voice as close to reassuring as Tucker has heard yet. Epsilon looks at him, long and considering. “He knows you’re here.”

“ _Good_ ,” Tucker says. “Good, that’s good. Uh—Church. Thanks.”

“Yeah yeah, shut the fuck up, Tucker,” Epsilon says tiredly, before winking away.

They all let out a collective breath as his avatar winks away. “Well,” Donut says. “I…I guess that could’ve been worse.”

“How could that have been worse?” Simmons exclaims. “They tried to brainwash Wash into killing us all! They put even _more_ memories into his head! Doesn’t he already have enough going on in there?!”

“Let’s not panic until we have to,” Dr. Grey says sharply, “and _certainly_ not in front of Wash. Grif, how far to Armonia?”

“About another hour,” Grif says. “And before a certain someone asks, I’m going as fast as I can.”

Carolina rolls her eyes, but says nothing. She glances at Wash and Tucker, arms swinging a little awkwardly, before turning to retrieve her helmet.

Tucker tries to get some more rest, but his nerves are far too jittery. He tucks the blanket around Wash and carefully lays him down, beginning the laborious process of snapping his own armor back on. A tense, awkward silence settles over them all, and Tucker suddenly realizes that he has no idea what they’re walking into.

Apparently, he isn’t the only one thinking it. Carolina is standing at the door before the Pelican fully lands, hand on the release seal. “I’ll talk to Kimball and Doyle,” she says abruptly.

“I already _did_ that, silly,” Dr. Grey says, exasperated. She’s still connected to them via the datapad, despite the fact that they are now officially inside of Armonia’s borders. Tucker can see her pacing in the landing bay now, as a harried looking Dr. Pickles pushes a stretcher towards her in the background. “I told you, they _want_ you all to come back, and bring Wash home.”

“I know,” Carolina says automatically. “I just—just want to make _sure._ ”

Grif snorts. “What, you think Kimball was lying about letting us back in? Think she’s gonna pull a gun out and start offing us?”

“That isn’t funny, Grif,” Carolina snaps. “And I have no idea what Vanessa Kimball is going to do, which is why I would prefer to be the one who finds out.”

 “I can do it,” Tucker offers, glancing at Carolina. “I mean—I can go double check. Make sure Kimball and Doyle are cool with it.” He can’t quite shake the guilt that had worked its way in several hours ago, ever since Simmons had made a point to mention that it was _Tucker_ who had gotten thrown out. He isn’t sure why this hadn’t occurred to him: he’d just assumed she’d booted the rest of them shortly after.

Well, except Caboose. Tucker knows full well that Kimball hadn’t kicked Caboose out, as Caboose hadn’t left his side since Kimball had ordered him to leave. Tucker glances at him now, sitting quietly several yards away. There is still a sick, furious terror churning in Tucker’s gut, but every time he tries to think of Caboose hugging Wash so tightly that the gurney left the ground, all he can see is Ali turning his face away as Tucker’s sword had burned through the muscle and bone of his arm, and the scream that Tucker knows he’ll hear for the rest of his life.

They’d all made one hell of a mess of things, but in the end they’d gotten Wash back, and right now, that is what matters.

“No,” Carolina says, in response to his question. “ _I’ll_ do it. You all stay here, and I’ll check.”

Tucker frowns. “What are you so _worried_ about? You’re not the one who got kicked out.”

She ignores him, but the line of her mouth grows even thinner. Tucker blinks at her. “Wait, _did_ you?”

“Can it, Blue,” Sarge snaps, and Tucker gives it up.

Tucker busies himself with putting his armor back on, and smooths the blanket over Wash’s shoulders. He hasn’t moved a single inch, and Tucker surreptitiously checks his pulse again. It’s still there, _onetwothree_ , still beating steady beneath his fingers.

Despite Dr. Grey’s repeated assurances that they’d be fine, his heart still lurches when Grif lands the Pelican. The ramp descends, and he can see Dr. Grey, Kimball, and Doyle standing outside the doors of the base. “I’ll be right back,” Carolina says, putting a hand on Tucker’s shoulder as he moves to lift Wash. “Just wait here.”

Carolina starts out of the Pelican the moment it opens, but something in her seems to falter halfway down the ramp. “Oh, _honestly_ ,” Donut mutters, and gives her shoulder a little push. “Go on, now.”

She jumps, glancing back at him, before squaring her shoulders and continuing her march down the ramp. They all watch as she approaches Kimball and Doyle, watch Dr. Grey bounce impatiently in the background, watch the conversation that they cannot hear. Less than a minute later, Carolina turns and gives the signal for them to follow.

Tucker adjusts the blanket around Wash’s shoulders and lifts him up carefully, following the Reds down the ramp. Dr. Grey starts towards them, first at a brisk walk, then a quick jog, then a dead sprint, Pickles trailing behind her with a stretcher. She reaches them well before he does, her hands fluttering about Wash’s head as she regards him in Tucker’s arms. “Oh, _Wash_ ,” she whispers, her voice equal parts despair and relief. “Goodness gracious, look at you.”

For a moment she merely looks at him, moving only when Sarge brushes a hand against the small of her back. “Go on, now. Work your magic, Em.”

She nods firmly, unhooking her medical scanner from its place on her belt. She runs it carefully over Wash’s body, continuing even as Pickles appears with the stretcher and Tucker lays Wash out on it. “Take him to the infirmary,” she says absently, and keeps scanning as they start across the landing bay.

“Oh, _dear,_ ” Doyle mumbles as they get closer. “Well, he doesn’t look good at all.”

“Very helpful, Donald,” Dr. Grey snaps without looking up as they pass him. Tucker glances up from his position by Wash’s stretcher to give a tight nod to Kimball and Doyle before refocusing his attention. He’s only paying a bit of attention to their surroundings, but it strikes him as more than a little suspicious that they don’t see a single soldier on their way to the infirmary.

The thought is only an absent-minded one, as Epsilon pops back on Wash’s chest as they walk. “Oh good, we’re here. It’s about fucking time.”

Grif throws up his arms. “I _told_ you, I went as fast as I could! Like you could’ve done any better…”

“Had a slightly more important job, buddy.”

“Oh my God,” Grif mutters. “Everyone’s a critic…”

“Moving on,” Carolina says loudly from where she’s marching along up front. “Epsilon, how are we doing?”

“Right, right. We’re good. We’re, uh…yeah.” He claps his hands, turning to Dr. Grey. “We ready to do this thing?”

“We’re ready,” she says. “Dr. James is already scrubbed in and waiting for us.”

“What do you need from me?”

“The best thing you can do is tell me immediately if the nanobots start to reactivate. That’s the most important thing. Got it?”

“Read you loud and clear, doc.”

“Good.”

They reach the infirmary doors less than a moment later, and Dr. Grey halts abruptly, facing them all with her hand up.. “Before you all start trying to charge in—“

Tucker groans, and he isn’t the only one. “Oh, _come_ on—“

“No loved ones allowed in the operating room,” she says firmly. “Come on now, sillies. You’ve gotten him this far. I’ll take it from here.”

Tucker grits his teeth. “Fine….”

He glances down at Wash, hesitating, and Grif sighs loudly. “Just kiss him already, for fuck’s sake.”

Tucker shoots him a glare before leaning down and doing just that, planting a kiss square on Wash’s forehead. “You’re gonna be fine,” he mutters uselessly, as Donut tearfully pats Wash’s hand. “Just fine. You always are.”

It takes everything in him not to follow the stretcher through the doors, but he just stands there, clenching his hands into tight fists.

“So…so we just wait?” Donut asks, as if they haven’t all done it a million times before, as if they didn’t just spend the last twenty-four days waiting, waiting, _waiting._

“Yeah,” Tucker says with a sigh. “We just fucking wait… _what?_ ” he snaps, when he notices Grif watching him with an almost melancholy expression.

“Dude,” Grif says. “You are so—”

“Fucked,” Tucker says. “Yeah. I know.”

* * *

They wait for _hours._

Five of them, to be exact. Tucker knows. He counts every single one. Tucker doesn’t move from his spot on the bench directly from across the infirmary doors and Caboose doesn’t move from his spot at the end of the hallway. Well, that’s not _exactly_ true, as Caboose is incapable of sitting still for more than two minutes at a time, but he neither leaves nor tries to inch closer to the infirmary doors. He just stays in his spot, sitting, standing, sleeping, bouncing.

The Reds huddle in a little group at the other end of the hall, bickering and eating and, finally, sleeping as well. Tucker hasn’t seen Carolina since they’d wheeled Wash through the infirmary doors, when she’d stared at them for a while before doing an about face and exiting down the hall.

“Captain Tucker?”

Tucker jumps, turning to see Britton and Kennedy tip-toeing down the hallway past the sleeping Caboose. “You’re _back,_ ” Britton breathes, glancing at the infirmary doors. “Does…does that mean…?”

“Yeah,” Tucker says, and she clutches at Kennedy’s arm in delight. “Yeah, we got Wash back.”

“Oh, thank _goodness,_ ” she says weakly. “I knew it, I knew you would!”

“Yeah…” Tucker frowns at them. “How did you know we were back, anyway?”

Tucker thinks again on the suspicious lack of soldiers during their dash to the infirmary. If no one had known about their return, then there would have been a few surprised soldiers milling around, not a complete and lack of human presence.

“We were keeping watch,” Kennedy says shiftily.

Tucker folds his arms across his chest and levels him with a stare. “You were _hiding_.”

“In the supply closet,” Britton confirms.

Kennedy slaps a hand over his visor. “ _BB!_ ”

“ _What?_ He knew anyway.” She turns impatiently back to Tucker. “We just want to know how Agent Washington is.”

When Tucker hesitates, she hurries to continue. “We don’t want to _bother_ him—I know that this is the part where only his lover and his closest friends wait outside, but—we just want to know if he’s okay.”

“We will relay the message to our friends,” Kennedy says, “and we’ll keep this hallway clear if you need it.”

“Oh, uh…well, thanks,” Tucker says awkwardly. “He…he’s pretty beat up, but Dr. Grey’s a fucking wizard and she’s working her magic now.”

“But he’s alive, right?”

“Yeah,” Tucker says. “Yeah, he’s alive.”

Something relaxes in both of them as he says it, and Britton pats her hand on Kennedy’s arm. “Kenny, the ration bars.”

“Oh—right.” Kennedy fumbles in his armor pouches before fishing out a handful of ration bars and handing one to Tucker. “We brought food, Captain.”

Tucker glances between him and the ration bar. “Kenny Kennedy? Really?”

“That’s correct, sir,” Kennedy says blithely.

“Jesus Christ.” Tucker takes the ration bar and gestures. “Go on, I’m sure Grif’s eaten through his stash about now.”

He watches as they hand out the bars to the Reds, then place one carefully on the bench next to Caboose. He unwraps his own ration bar and stares at it, guilt swimming uncomfortably in his stomach. They’d wanted to go on that awful mission to rescue Wash, both of them, but Kimball had absolutely forbid anyone under the age of seventeen to go.

Tucker wonders if they would have made it out of there if they had.

_Nine dead three critical two lost limbs thirty minutes—_

Tucker rips off his helmet and upper body armor and dumps it on the floor between his feet, trying not to be sick. The tenuous calm that that had overtaken him since seeing Epsilon very nearly shatters, and he casts around desperately for something to focus on.

Armor. He stares at his armor, thinking hard. It fits him like a glove, but he wonders if they could modify it to fit Wash. It was, after all, Freelancer armor, and Tucker had been through hell and back with it. It was certainly better than whatever scraps of armor they were going to find for Wash. Tucker could spray paint it for him, grey and yellow and maybe a little strip of aqua somewhere inconspicuous. “Like a hickey,” Tucker would tell him with a wink and probably a filthy kiss, and Wash would roll his eyes but try not to grin, and he’d kiss Tucker back, mouth opening with a sigh—

But the daydream cuts off there, because Tucker starts thinking of that hickey on Wash’s neck on the video and just how it got there, and the fury that bubbles up in him leaves him light-headed. He drops his head between his knees and breathes deep, busies himself with counting Caboose’s snores from down the hall.

 Someone’s hand rests on his back, a comforting weight helping to anchor him. “I’m okay,” Tucker mutters at the floor. “I’m okay, I just…I’m okay.”

He keeps breathing in time to Caboose’s snores, and the hand doesn’t move, just continues to press in between his shoulder blades. Tucker draws in a final breath, and when he lifts his head from in between his knees, it is to see Kimball sitting next to him. She says nothing, just looks at him, brown eyes sad, but her hand is still on his back, unwavering in its weight.

Tucker has his arms around her neck without even realizing it was something he planned to do. She is in armor save for her helmet, and the points dig into Tucker’s chest and arms but he doesn’t care, just presses his cheek into the shoulder guard and fights against the howl he feels welling up inside of him. Kimball hugs him back, her palms pressing firmly into his back, the loose strands of her hair tickling his face. Over her shoulder, Tucker sees Carolina, leaning against the doorway with her arms crossed, watching them.

“I’m sorry,” Tucker mutters into her hair. “I just—I couldn’t leave him there. I _couldn’t._ ”

Kimball does not tell him it’s okay, but she doesn’t pull away from him either, and they stay there like that for a while until something settles in Tucker’s chest. They break apart to the sound of the infirmary doors opening, Tucker hastily wiping at his eyes.

It isn’t Dr. Grey, but rather Dr. James who emerges, tugging down her scrub cap with a sigh. She looks so dejected that Tucker’s instantly on his feet, heart in his throat. “What? _What?_ ”

“He’s stable,” she assures him.

“But?”

“But Dr. Grey hasn’t been able to get the nanobots out.”

“Is she _going_ to be able to?” Simmons asks, alarmed.

“It’s too early to tell.” She glances around at all of them. “She’s working _very_ hard. It’s just an update. You should all get some rest. We could be here a while.”

She heads back into the infirmary and no one moves.

No one moves a single inch.

“What if she can’t get them out?” Donut whispers, and there is no answer for his words, only a resounding, sickening silence.

* * *

It’s late into the night when Dr. Grey herself comes out. She looks at all of them and sighs, but does not look surprised to see them sitting there. Tucker stands. “Did you get them—?”

“No,” she says abruptly. “No, I didn’t. They’re still in there.”

Tucker bites down the rest of his questions and waits. “I had to close,” she says. “I’m going to spend the rest of the night looking at his brain scans and seeing if there’s anything I missed. For now, he’s stable. Epsilon is monitoring his vitals and brain activity and will let me know at once if anything is amiss.”

There is no waver in her voice, no break in her expression to suggest that anything is horribly wrong, but warning bells go off in Tucker’s head nonetheless. It’s the way she is standing, he realizes, the way she is holding herself so carefully: shoulders back, chin lifted, arms held slightly away from her sides. Her eyes hold their usual steel, but her bones appear made of glass, as if the merest touch might shatter her.

 _Something’s wrong,_ Tucker realizes. _Something’s very, very wrong._

Donut clears his throat tentatively. “Can we—”

“No,” Dr. Grey snaps, and Donut huffs, affronted. “No, you cannot go in there. He needs his rest—”

“We’re just gonna weep at his bedside, not throw a party,” Grif mutters.

“Somehow I doubt that very much.”

They eye each other before Dr. Grey folds her arms—carefully, so carefully—across her chest. “Fine. Two by two. You must be quiet, and you must be quick. Pickles, if you need to throw anyone out, please do not hesitate to do so.”

“What?” Tucker asks, as Dr. Grey turns to him in particular.

He thinks she’s going to say something, but she just presses her lips together in a thin line and sweeps off towards her office.

He stands immediately, Donut falling into step beside him. The lights are dimmed, the glow of the monitors standing out brightly in the darkness, and they each take a seat by Wash’s bed. Tucker hesitates before reaching out to brush Wash’s hand with his fingers.

“He looks so much smaller,” Donut whispers, and Tucker can see what he means. He does look smaller, attached to so many tubes and wires, a thick bandage wrapped around most of his head. It feels as if they’ve only been there for ten seconds before Donut is standing, tugging Tucker away with a sniff. “Come on. Let’s let the others say hi.”

Grif and Simmons go in next, followed by Sarge by himself when Caboose plants his feet at the door and staunchly refuses. “Let him be,” Carolina snaps when she sees Tucker opening his mouth furiously, and Tucker does, clunking his head back against the wall and closing his eyes.

He can’t stand it, staying out here when Wash is in there alone. No one tries to stop him when he rises ten minutes later and heads towards the infirmary doors, until Pickles throws out an arm from where he’s standing sentinel in front of the doors. “Sir, I’m sorry, but you can’t go back in there.”

Pickles looks like he barely tips the scale at one hundred pounds, but Tucker resists the urge to bodily move him out of the way. “I just—I just want to see him.”

“You already saw him.”

“I know, but…” Tucker hesitates, struggling to find words to describe how he’s feeling right now—how he can’t _breathe,_ how Wash being out of his sight for so long after what he’d just been through has left Tucker on the verge of panic all day, how he’s half-convinced that Wash is going to die in the middle of the night, all alone, and—

Tucker focuses on this last part. “He shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“He’s unconscious,” Pickles says. “He won’t know you’re there.”

“You don’t know that.”

Wrong thing to say, as Pickles swells. “Sir,” he says, “I am a _doctor_. I _do_ know, and besides, he isn’t alone. The Epsilon A.I. is monitoring his vitals.”

“What a comforting thought,” Tucker deadpans. “Look. I just—I just—”

“Dude, he just wants to go in there and hold his lover’s hand,” Grif mutters from where he’s lying face down on the bench in full armor. “C’mon, have you never seen a movie? Or read a fucking book? Ever?”

“Have _you_ ever read a book?” Simmons snarks, and Grif musters up the energy to lift his head to shoot Simmons a glare.

Something softens in Pickles face, and Tucker makes a mental note to thank Grif. “Well I…I suppose if you’re not going to make any noise…”

“I’m not,” Tucker says quickly. “I’m just gonna go in there and sit. _Quietly._ ”

Pickles eyes him. “And hold his hand?”

“And hold his hand.”

“Oh….well, alright,” Pickles says, and pushes the door open for Tucker.

Tucker slips through before Pickles can change his mind. The infirmary is dark, save for the glowing monitors of the machines, and for Epsilon, the brightest light of them all. He’s sitting cross-legged on Wash’s chest, head in his hands, and as Tucker inches closer, he can make out what he’s saying.

“So _anyway,_ Carolina’s bitchin’ and moanin’ about how hungry she is—well, not really, but she was _thinking_ it, which I know, because I’m in her head—anyway. We run into Sarge, because you know, why _wouldn’t_ Sarge be prowling the fucking hallways on his night off , and he, surprise surprise, is _also_ hungry. So then they start bonding over how hungry they are, and turns out Sarge knows some super secret place where they can get fried chicken. So I log off at this point because I’m like, fuck it, I cannot be responsible for what happens next. Next thing I know, I wake up an hour later and they’re like, miles away from the base, fucking _miles_ —you would’ve thrown a _fit_ —standing in the middle of an alleyway. So then! This is the best part—Grif fucking melts out of the shadows and starts dialing into the secret radio frequency of this mystery chef-woman—he’s like, _Wolfbat to Betty Crocker, code seven nine eight five what-the-fuck-ever_ —and then, it actually _works,_ and the three of them go in there and she actually _bakes them fried chicken.”_

Epsilon laughs a little, lifting his face from his hands to look at Wash. “Like I said, you would’ve had a fit. But, uh…it made Carolina really happy, so…I guess that was cool, and…thought you’d like to see it. So. There you go. I’ve got more stories if—”

He catches sudden sight of Tucker, standing frozen in the doorway, and comes to an abrupt halt. “Hi,” Tucker says stupidly, and inches forward until he’s tentatively lowering himself into the chair next to Wash. “Can he hear you?”

“Yeah,” Epsilon says. “Yeah. He’s pretty far under, but…so am I, I guess.”

Tucker looks at Wash, so still and silent and small, and after a sideways glance at Epsilon, lifts up Wash’s hand. “Can he hear _me?_ ”

Epsilon shrugs. “I don’t know. Why don’t you talk to him for a while?”

Tucker hesitates, glancing back at the door. “Pickles said I should be quiet.”

“Pickles is an idiot,” Epsilon says, with a roll of his helmet. “Well. He _did_ just assist Grey in a twelve-hour surgery, so I guess he can’t be _that_ much of an idiot, but—kid’s not a brain surgeon and he doesn’t know shit about A.I.s.”

“Should he be operating on Wash’s brain if he isn’t a neurosurgeon?”

“Oh, he’s not.” Epsilon sighs. “That’s kind of the problem. Grey’s the only neurosurgeon this army’s got, and…”

“And?”

“And Wash’s implants are a mess.” He catches the look on Tucker’s face. “Look, he’s stable for now, alright? The point is, Pickles doesn’t really get how this all works, and if you want to talk to Wash….”

Epsilon pauses, visibly struggling before muttering, “Think he’d like to hear your voice. Or something. I guess.”

“What…what should I talk about?”

Epsilon shrugs. “Tell him a story. A real one. I think…I think that’s what he needs the most, right now. Something real.”

“Okay.” Tucker pauses, trying to think of something he hasn’t told Wash already, and is surprised at just how difficult this is. He’d told Wash a lot, at Rockslide, on the way to the Archives, at the crash site. Stories about Blood Gulch, about Junior, about his childhood, about Basic training. Wash was a good listener, asking questions in all the right places, and sometimes—not always, but sometimes—he’d give Tucker a story back.

“Alright. Well, how about this one time in Blood Gulch, Caboose lost his helmet and one of his gloves—”

Epsilon snorts. _“One_ of his gloves?”

“Only one,” Tucker confirms with a grin. “The left one. So he comes shuffling into the living room where Church and I were watching TV—one of those rare days we had signal, you know, so we were living that shit _up_. Caboose starts tearing the room apart—lifting up the couch we’re sitting on, lifting us up so he could look under us. The funniest part was watching Church lose his fucking mind, ‘cause he was trying to pretend he didn’t notice—like, if we didn’t give Caboose attention, he’d go away.”

Tucker snickers, continuing. “Well, that didn’t exactly work—but Caboose did sit down right in between us on that tiny ass couch and started watching TV. It freaked Church out so much—because Caboose can’t shut the fuck up, you know—that he jumped up and started demanding what was wrong. Next thing you know, we’re spending the next three fucking hours looking for Caboose’s helmet.” Tucker reflects, his thumb rubbing absent-minded patterns into the back of Wash’s hand. “Now that I think about it, that may have been his plan all along.”

“Where did you find the helmet?” Epsilon asks. He’s leaning back, palms behind him, legs crossed over Wash’s heart.

“Oh—so it turns out Caboose had left it in the fucking storage closet at Red Base—don’t ask,” he says, throwing up a palm when Epsilon starts laughing. “So Church storms in there like a fucking wrecking ball and gets the fucking helmet and glove back, and presents it to Caboose like he’s returning from war. Which, the way Caboose reacted, you’d have thought he was.”

Tucker grins at the memory, and although he can’t see Epsilon’s face, he suspects that he is too. “Caboose—he really loved the guy. Church.” Epsilon hesitates. “Alpha.”

“Yeah,” Tucker says. “That’s the understatement of the century.”

“I think he likes you, too,” Epsilon teases. “Well, some days.”

“I think he likes you some days too,” Tucker says. “Mondays and Wednesdays, maybe.”

Epsilon looks at him, then knocks lightly on Wash’s chest with his fist. “He loves Wash too but…who doesn’t, am I right? Thought half the base was gonna lose it when he was gone.”

“Kinda wish he could’ve seen that,” Tucker says. “All those people, lining up for him. He’ll never fucking believe it.”

“He might.”

“Can you—” Tucker stops, suddenly feeling foolish. “Never mind.”

“No, come on, what?”

“Can you…tell him…can you just tell him I’m here?”

“I don’t have to.” Epsilon turns to look at Wash. “He can hear you.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Oh,” Tucker says, suddenly at a total loss for words.

“Do you—I can log off, if you—”

“Thanks,” Tucker says, before he can lose his nerve.

Epsilon pauses. “Are you…talking to him, or…”

“No, you dumbfuck,” Tucker says, and rolls his eyes. “I’m talking to you. Thanks. For deactivating those things.”

“Oh,” Epsilon says. “I couldn’t get them out, so. I mean. _Kinda_ a moot point.”

Tucker shrugs. “ _Kinda_ sounds to me like you saved his life.”

“Dr. Grey saved his life,” Epsilon corrects. “Don’t think I would’ve pulled my shit together if she hadn’t been there yelling at me to stop being a little bitch.”

“Yeah, well,” Tucker says with a sigh. “I wasn’t much better.”

He glances back at Wash, squeezing his hand a little tighter, and Epsilon doesn’t miss the motion. “So, do you want me to log off?”

“No,” Tucker says quickly. “No, it’s okay. Really. Besides, it’s your turn to tell him a story.”

Epsilon looks up at him, but Tucker doesn’t meet his eye, just wraps his other hand around Wash’s as well. “Okay,” Epsilon says. “Okay, let me think…”

* * *

Tucker startles awake the next morning, disoriented, batting the hair out of his face. “What? What is it? What’s happening?”

“I _said,_ I thought I told you not to come back in here.”

Aw, fuck. Tucker squints up at Dr. Grey, who is looming over him with her arms folded. “Right,” Tucker says slowly. “Right. You _did_ say that, but…”

“But you fancy yourself above the rules.”

“I wanted to hold his hand,” Tucker says. He lifts up his hand, still intertwined with Wash’s. He’d fallen asleep right there with his head on the edge of Wash’s mattress. Epsilon is standing on the other side of Wash, arms folded and glancing up at Dr. Grey. His postures is stiff and tense, and Tucker sits up a little straighter in alarm with the distinct feeling that he’s missed something. “What’s wrong?”

Dr. Grey sighs. “Tucker, come with me. There’s something I need to discuss with all of you.”

Tucker hesitates, glancing back at Wash, but Dr. Grey continues. “Epsilon is going to stay with him.”

With a nod, Tucker gets up reluctantly and follows her into her office, where Kimball, Doyle, Carolina, and the rest of the sim troopers are crowded.

Dr. Grey tugs off her scrub cap and folds it neatly on the table in front of her, clasping her hands on top of it. “I need another set of hands.”

“Sure I can’t help?” Sarge asks. Something about the way he says it makes Tucker think that it’s a point he’s brought up many times in the last several hours, and he looks a little closer at Dr. Grey.

She smiles at him a little sadly. “If it were any other surgery, I have no doubt that you could. But I need a neurosurgeon. You know that.”

“Um,” Tucker says, squinting at her suspiciously. “Aren’t _you_ a neurosurgeon?”

“I’m an everything surgeon,” Dr. Grey says dismissively. “ _Including_ a neurosurgeon. But in order to fix the wires in Wash’s brain, I need another set of hands. _Neurosurgeon_ hands. _Steady_ hands. The _best_ hands. Well. Other than mine, of course.”

She straightens then, shoulders pushed back as she looks at them each in turn. “We need,” she says dramatically, “to call in the _Architect_.”

Tucker can’t help but feel as if they are failing to give her some expected reaction, and a quick glance around the room proves that everyone else feels similarly. Everyone is staring at her blankly save for Doyle, who nods enthusiastically and mutters, “Oh right, _quite_ right.”

The silence stretches until it grows awkward, and Grif clears his throat. “Uh…who?”

Dr. Grey’s shoulders slump. “The _Architect_ ,” she emphasizes, then sighs when everyone stares at her. “I forgot, you wouldn’t know who he is—we worked together for a time. He’s a traveling surgeon, and we spent a bit of time working together when I was with the Feds. The man’s a genius—you know, like me. Did things with his hands that I’ve never even _seen_ before.”

“And where is this magical mystery surgeon now?” Tucker asks.

“The outskirts,” she says. “They don’t get much medical attention out there.”

“So this guy is…what, a saint?”

“Tucker,” Grif says tiredly, rubbing his eyes. “Don’t—”

“Look, I’m sorry, but we don’t _know_ this guy—some weirdo who calls himself _the Architect_ is going to come and put his hands all up in Wash’s brain—”

“ _He_ doesn’t call himself the Architect,” Dr. Grey protests. “That’s just what everyone _else_ calls him. It’s art, really, what he can do to a human brain. His name is Alexander—“

“Oh, great, so Alexander the Architect is gonna come and play which-wire-do-I-cut in Wash’s brain?” He looks around at them imploringly. “I mean, come _on._ ”

“ _I_ know him.”

Tucker looks at Dr. Grey. “What?”

“You said, ‘some guy we don’t know.’” Dr. Grey’s glaring at him, eyes narrowed. “ _I_ know him. Do you really think I would let _anyone_ who was _anything_ less than perfect within a hundred yards of Wash?”

“No,” Tucker mutters. “No, I—okay. Yeah, I mean, do—do whatever you think is best.”

“I wasn’t asking your permission,” she says coolly, “and if you come into my infirmary and stress out Wash like you’ve been stressing everyone else out lately, then _you_ won’t be allowed within a hundred yards of him.”

“What—I wasn’t…”

“Is that understood?”

“Yes,” Tucker grits out. “It’s _understood_.”

“Good,” Dr. Grey says, in that same icy tone, before turning back to Kimball and Doyle. “ _Now,_ I’ll have to see if I can contact him—radio reception is a little spotty where he is—“

“You…you mean to say you’re in contact with him?” Doyle sputters. “That you could just—call him up whenever you pleased?”

“And what makes you so sure he’s going to come when you ask?” Kimball adds.

“I’m not sure,” Dr. Grey says. “But I think I can make a _pretty_ convincing argument. Besides, he can’t resist a case like this.”

“So he likes a challenge, does he?” Sarge says. “Hmm. Well, sounds to me like we can’t hope for a better man on the case!”

“Precisely,” Dr. Grey says briskly. “I’ll make contact and keep you all informed.”

They all stand, getting ready to go, when Dr. Grey turns to Tucker. “Tucker, a word?”

“ _Ooooooh,_ someone’s in trouble,” Grif snickers. Tucker flips him off before heading down the hallway, where Dr. Grey is waiting with crossed arms.

“I know you’re scared,” she says without preamble, “and I don’t blame you, one teensy bit.”

Tucker huffs. “I’m not _scared_ —”

“You’re terrified,” she says. “You’re terrified for Wash. But so is everyone else.”

“I _know_ that—”

“Do you?”

Tucker stops, taking in a deep, calming breath. “Look,” he says calmly. “I just—I don’t care about everyone else’s feelings right now! I’m sorry, but I just _don’t!_ I know I’ve fucked up—I know I’ve gotten people--- _I know that._ And that’s for me to fucking—fucking own up to, or _deal_ with, or whatever, but—but right now, I care about Wash. That’s whose corner I’m in. I failed him for twenty-four days. Twenty-four fucking days. I’m not failing him for another goddamn second.”

“You didn’t fail him,” Dr. Grey says. “There’s nothing—there was no way.”

“I did,” Tucker says firmly. “I did. I failed him and everyone else that I led onto that mission. That’s on me. I know that. But right now, I just want to help him get better.”

“So do I,” Dr. Grey says. “ _So do I_ , Tucker. And I need you to trust me to do that.”

“I do,” he says, before he really has time to even consider the answer. Even when he does, it’s still the same. “I…I really do.”

* * *

Tucker leaves her office only to take a seat right outside the infirmary doors, where Caboose has already set up camp. The two of them sit there in silence for about ten minutes before Tucker can’t take it anymore.

Tucker leans his head back until it rests against the wall of the ceiling with a clunk. “Oh my God, just come over here, Caboose.”

“No, that’s okay,” Caboose says, his voice sounding all wounded and shit. “I think I’ll just. I’ll stay here. Yeah.”

It’s the soft, somber tone of Caboose’s voice that has Tucker lifting his head and squinting at him. “Have you eaten today?”

When Caboose doesn’t answer, Tucker heaves a sigh. “Caboose, _come here.”_ He pauses. “Please.”

This time, Caboose stands and shuffles over to him. Tucker fishes a ration bar out of one of his armor pockets and shoves it at Caboose. “Eat—no, take your helmet off first Caboose _, Jesus_ Christ.”

Caboose pops the seals on his helmet and, to Tucker’s surprise, hands it to him instead of setting it on the floor. “Will you, um. Will you hold this for me?”

Tucker stares at him. “Huh?”

“It’s just, um….” Caboose glances down at his helmet, turning it over carefully in his hands. “It’s just that, see, Wash made it for me. And I would like to be careful with it, and you. Well. You are very loud, and annoying, but you were very _very_ careful with Wash, when we found him, more careful than I was, so. I would like you to be careful with this, too. Please.”

“Caboose,” Tucker mutters, but he huffs and takes Caboose’s stupid _Mark V_ helmet, the one that Wash had agonized over and spray painted fifteen times, the one that Tucker had fixed the wiring in. “Fine. Just…just eat the fucking ration bar, okay?”

“Okay,” Caboose says quietly, and then lapse into silence.

“I’m still mad at you,” Tucker says abruptly, once Caboose has his mouth sufficiently full of food. “Like, just so we’re clear. I’m really fucking pissed.”

“Okay.”

“You could’ve—you just—you gotta be more _careful,_ alright?”

Caboose nods sadly. “I will make sure not to hug people anymore.”

“Ugghhhhh….” Tucker leans down, dropping his head down on top of Caboose’s helmet. “That’s not what I _said,_ Caboose. You just gotta be careful. Like, move _slowly.”_

“Slowly?”

“Yeah, like…” Tucker opens his arms out to the air and mimics wrapping his arms around someone, slowly. “You know, like that.”

Caboose is still staring at him like he’s speaking a foreign language. “Hug the air?”

Tucker casts a look of despair up at the ceiling, heaves a sigh, and leans in towards Caboose. “Like _this,_ you idiot.”

He wraps his arms around Caboose’s neck and Caboose latches on instantly, squeezing Tucker’s waist like a vice and burying his head into Tucker’s shoulder. “Not so tight,” Tucker gasps, “that’s another thing, Jesus _fuck._ If you walk in that room and hug Wash so tight you crack a rib—”

“Sorry,” Caboose whispers, but rather than letting go of Tucker, he loosens his grip and like, settles in for the long haul. “I’m sorry. I will be very, very careful and very, very slow.”

“Okay.”

“Is Wash going to die because of me?”

Tucker pulls away so that he can look in Caboose’s eyes which are, of course, filled with gigantic crocodile tears. “Wash is _not_ going to die.”

“Okay, but you are not a doctor and also you do not sound very sure.”

“Ugh, Caboose—look. I don’t know what the fuck is gonna happen, and you fucked up—like you really, _really_ fucked up, but—but…” Tucker struggles before leaning back against the wall. “So did I, alright? I actually _did_ get people killed on that mission.”

“The mission with the loud mines?”

“Fucking bingo.”

“Oh. Okay.” Caboose pauses. “Except, I ah, I don’t know if that’s the same thing. See, you did not hug someone too fast and too hard and shoot scary botonans into their brain—“

“It’s nanobots, Caboose.”

“Right—nannerbots—into one of your best friends’ brain, so.”

“Yeah. Well.” Tucker swallows hard. “I _did_ chop off one of my best friend’s hands, so.”

He still can’t think about it, has no idea how he’s going to look Ali in the face, or _any_ of the people who lost friends on a mission that he rushed them into. “I fucked up too. That’s all I’m saying. Don’t tell me I didn’t. I just…we both fucked up. Okay?”

“Okay,” Caboose says, and they sit there in silence, Tucker holding Caboose’s helmet carefully in his hands.

They both jump when the door opens and Dr. Grey emerges. “How is he?” Tucker asks. He keeps his voice calm and somber, trying to paint the perfect picture of the calm, caring soldier who is _absolutely not_ going to stress out his injured boyfriend.

Dr. Grey slants him a suspicious look. “He’s awake. He’s very groggy, but he’s lucid. I think he’d like to see you both.”

They stand eagerly, Tucker still clutching Caboose’s helmet. Dr. Grey throws her arms across the infirmary door and glares at them both. “I will be watching his monitors like a sunhawk and if I see so much as a _blip_ on them, you’re out of there. _Both_ of you. Is that understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Caboose says, while Tucker nods vigorously.

She eyes them once more, pushing the door open and leading the way. “Wash, I brought your friends.” Dr. Grey gestures at two chairs that she’s pulled up on one sit of Wash’s bed and adds in an undertone, “Sit.”

Tucker and Caboose hasten to sit, and she retreats a little. Tucker clenches his hands in his lap, resisting the urge to grab Wash’s hand or touch his face. He looks so fragile, thin and exhausted with tubes and wire all over the fucking place, but his eyes are open—unfocused and weary but open nonetheless, open and bright.

Epsilon is sitting on the nightstand next to Wash’s bed, and he looks up a little nervously. Tucker gives him a tight nod, tries to smile, gives it up, and redirects his gaze back to Wash. “Hey, Wash.”

Wash’s eyes sharpen and focus then, blinking at Tucker. “Hi,” he whispers, and now Tucker’s feeling a bit more sympathetic towards Caboose’s unchecked desire to throw his arms around him and never let go.

Tucker throat closes up and he finds himself, for one of the few times in his life, at a complete loss of what to say. They are all there, but the phrases and questions racing through his brain don’t seem like they would have the Dr. Grey stamp of approval: _are you okay, what happened to you, when was the last time you ate, what did they do to you, I swear to God I’m gonna kill every last one of them._ “You look cold,” he blurts instead.

He gets a little half-grin out of it. “M’fine,” Wash says, and he makes a little patting motion with his hand at the air, as if he wanted to pat Tucker’s arm reassuringly but didn’t quite make it that far.

“Oh my God,” Tucker huffs. He catches Wash’s hand and squeezes as tightly as he dares. “Don’t you start that _I’m fin_ e bullshit.”

“You do not look very fine, Agent Washington,” Caboose adds, and Dr. Grey makes a half-choking noise of despair.

“’S’okay,” Wash slurs at her. “They’re okay.”

“He looks cold,” Tucker says, in a long-suffering tone. “He gets real cold when he sleeps. I should’ve put one on him last night, that was fucking stupid of me…”

Dr. Grey eyes him, but crosses the room to the supply closet at gets out another blanket. To Tucker surprise, she does not lay the blanket over Wash herself, but hands it to Tucker. “Thanks,” he says, and unfolds it carefully, tucking it in around the edges of Wash’s body. It’s thinner than he would’ve liked, but it’s dense and warm and pretty soft for a hospital blanket.

“Thanks,” Wash says, and Tucker re-grips his hand.

“You’re welcome.” He waggles his eyebrows at Wash. “Anything else I can do to make you feel better?”

Epsilon groans and Dr. Grey huffs, but Wash does that little half-smile again. “Done enough,” he says, voice a little stronger. “Got me out’f there.

At that moment, Caboose bursts into tears, burying his face in his hands and leaning his elbows on the side of Wash’s bed. “Caboose!” Tucker hisses, as Dr. Grey looks horrified and Epsilon slaps a hand over his visor.

“Caboose.” Wash takes his free hand and pats Caboose’s curly head awkwardly. “M’fine.”

“No you aren’t,” Caboose sobs. “you have lots of scary surgeries coming up and they are all my fault because I hugged you too hard when I shouldn’t have hugged you and—“

“Caboose,” Wash protests, but Caboose barrels right on over him.

“—and I will be more careful and if you do not ever want me to hug you again, then that will be fine, I will do whatever you want because I am very sorry and—and—“

“Okay,” Dr. Grey says tightly. “Caboose, that’s quite _enough_.”

“I’m sorry I hugged you too hard,” Caboose sobs into his hands.

Wash pats his hair again. “’S’okay…kinda…needed one.” He pauses. “Could maybe use one now.”

Caboose looks up at him then, brown eyes huge. “You could?”

“Yeah,” Wash says. “Think so.”

Caboose moves slowly, wrapping his arms around Wash and holding him delicately. Wash pats his back, his free hand still tangled in Tucker’s, and Tucker leans in too. “I knew you were coming,” Wash mutters. “The whole time. I knew.”

Tucker has to swallow hard around the lump that’s closed in his throat. “Sorry we took so long.”

“You came,” Wash says. “You—both of you— _twice_ —you came for me.”

“Always,” Tucker says, his voice fierce and thick with what is definitely not tears. “Dude, you can get your ass snatched by the bad guys every fucking week and we will come and get you. Right, Caboose?”

“Right,” Caboose says, voice thick with what is absolutely tears. Tucker can feel them on his fucking arm. “Right. Always.”

“Alright,” Dr. Grey says softly after another minute of this. “Alright, let’s make sure he has some air, now.”

Tucker pulls back, wiping surreptitiously at his eyes. Dr. Grey hands Caboose a tissue. “Bunch of saps,” Epsilon mutters.

“Shut the fuck up, Church.”

“Wash, you should try to get some rest,” Dr. Grey says softly, and as Tucker takes a closer look, he can see Wash fighting to keep his eyes open.

Wash’s gaze flicks between him and Caboose. “Will you…?”

“Staying right here,” Tucker says firmly, redoubling his grip around Wash’s hand. “I’m not leaving unless I have to take a shit and even then, I’ll be right back. Fuck, maybe I’ll have Grey bring me a bedpan.”

“Not necessary,” Wash mutters, his voice slurred with sleep. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” Tucker says. “Yeah.”

He rubs his thumb back and forth over Wash’s knuckles until he drifts off to sleep. The monitors hold steady, beeping in time with his breath, and Tucker counts them _, onetwothree, onetwothree,_ until Caboose’s head is resting on the side of Wash’s bed and his snores add to the count, and Tucker leans his own head on the bed, tucks his forehead in right next to Wash’s side, and drifts off to sleep as well.


	32. Chapter 32

The wooden shelves containing his memories arc high into the air, so high that Wash cannot see their dusty tops. He knows every inch, though, every knot, every nail, meticulously memorized from when he’d first built them. _Cherry wood,_ he realizes now, running a hand over one of the empty shelves, a blue memory held tight in the other. _I built them out of cherry wood._

_Back when he was a little boy, when he was still David, he helped his grandfather chop down a cherry tree on the family farm._

_He has only fuzzy memories of his father, as he was too young to remember when he left, but he remembers his grandfather and the farm very well. So many of Wash’s firsts had taken place on that farm: his first time learning to drive, his first kiss with a boy in the sunflower fields, his first time having sex with girl from the city on the banks of the pond. One of his earliest memories is of standing next to the farm’s fallen cherry tree, ripped down by a particularly ferocious storm._

_Wash remembers standing next to the tree, ankle-deep in fallen pink petals, and trying not to cry. He loved that tree, and he knew his grandfather did too, but his grandfather merely looked thoughtful, not sad. “David,” he’d said, “fetch me the chainsaw from the barn. Go on.”_

_He’d reluctantly brought his grandfather the chainsaw, and stood a careful distance away with his hands over his ears as his grandfather sawed one of the branches clean off. His grandfather had beckoned him closer, and shown him the fresh cut wood inside. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”_

_It was. The tree was old, very old, and the cherry wood inside was a deep, rich red, full of whirls and knots. His grandfather had used every bit of that fallen tree: he’d made a bench, a table, a box, several trinkets for Wash and his sisters. He’d given Wash the wood from one of the branches and taught him to whittle, and although Wash didn’t think he was very good at it, he enjoyed the feel of the knife in his hands, and the way the wood shavings smelled as they fell to the floor._

_Wash had used every bit of that branch until all that was left was a small, smooth block that fit perfectly in his pocket. He’d carried it all the way with him up to Freelancer, where he assumed it had been lost with the rest of the ship._

He turns this memory over in his hands now, of cracking open the wood of that tree with his grandfather, before boxing it up carefully, and placing its shelf. He hadn’t been thinking when he’d built them so long ago, but the wood is precisely the same color of that fallen cherry tree.

The shelves fade beneath his hands and he frowns, turning to look at the open sky. For a moment, everything is bright until it isn’t, and Wash wakes, squinting in the darkened infirmary. There’s something soft beneath his palm, and he glances down his arm to see his hand resting on top of Tucker’s dreads. Tucker is breathing low and steady, his hand curled around Wash’s shin.

“Need some help with that?”

Wash’s eyes flick to Epsilon, sitting on his chest like a blue flame, so bright that Wash wonders how he missed him. “With what?”

“With…” Epsilon gestures vaguely at Wash’s head. “With whatever you were doing in there.”

Wash turns his attention inward once more to the boxes, lined up on their cherry shelves. “No,” he says, without turning to look back at Epsilon. “I don’t.”

The infirmary disappears around him, the touch of Tucker’s hair beneath his fingers the last real thing he feels before the waking word fades before his eyes, and he is left standing amid his memories.

Epsilon does not follow him.

* * *

“Don’t you think it would make more sense if you stacked them facing the other way?”

“What?”

“You know, like…instead of long ways if you stacked them vertically.”

“And why would I want to do _that?_ ”

“So that you could fit more on the shelves, dumbass.”

“I can’t _see_ them all that way.”

“But—”

“Epsilon, _stay out of it,_ alright?”

“Alright, _alright,_ geez….”

* * *

“I’m just saying, though. This would go a lot faster if I helped. I know where they’re supposed to go. Well. Most of them.”

“Epsilon, I’d really rather you not touch anything.”

“Okay, _okay._ Why don’t you tell me how you really feel?

“I just did.”

“Fine.”

_“Fine.”_

* * *

“You don’t have to stay, you know. I’m fine.”

“Yeah. You’ve said that, Wash. Like a hundred times.”

“So then _go_ **.** ”

“I _can’t_. Not until we come up with a strategy for these things.”

 “You told me I just have to stay calm, right? So, I’ll stay calm.”

“I think that’s a little easier said than done, dude.”

“Oh, so you think that _you’re_ the one I want to see when I’m stressed out?”

“No, but I _am_ the only one who can wall those things back up. Computer program, remember?”

“I can do it myself, just tell me—”

“Alright, enough!”

A new voice cuts through their bickering and Wash blinks. He is simultaneously sitting on the floor surrounded by his memories, and lying in his infirmary bed with Epsilon perched on his nightstand while Dr. Grey glares at them both.

Wash focuses on her face, fighting to stay conscious for what feels like the first time in days. “Emily?”

Her frown melts a little, and she reaches down to pat his hand. “That’s right. Do you know your name?”

“My…my name is Agent Washington. My friends call me Wash.”

It falls from his lips so easily that he knows it sounds rehearsed, but Dr. Grey just nods. “And you know who this is?”

Wash barely glances over to where she’s gesturing. “Epsilon.”

“Bingo,” Epsilon says.

“Right. Wash, I’m not sure how long you’ll be conscious this time, so allow me to speak frankly.” Dr. Grey takes a breath, folding her arms over her chest. “The pair of you need to _knock it off_.”

Wash and Epsilon frown at each other for a second before staring at her. “Huh?” Epsilon says blankly.

She huffs, fiddling with one of Wash’s monitors and turning the screen to them. “Look. These are scans of Wash’s brain activity.”

“Okay, so what’s your…” Epsilon trails off, squinting at them. “ _Oh_.”

“Yes. _Oh_.”

“What’s _oh?_ ” Wash asks suspiciously. “What does that mean?”

“What it _means,_ ” Dr. Grey says, spinning the screen around. “Is that every time the two of you so much as speak to each other, Wash’s stress levels start to increase. His fight or flight response, if you will.”

Epsilon is at once a ball of guilt in his head, and Wash frowns a little. “Everything’s fine, though. The nanobots are contained and I don’t feel stressed. Well—I do, but…”

Dr. Grey smiles at him. “Wash, just because these monitors here—” she gives them a little tap— “aren’t going haywire, doesn’t mean that everything’s fine. The changes may be minute, but that doesn’t mean that they aren’t dangerous.”

“She’s right,” Epsilon says. He fiddles with his gauntlets before dropping his hands with a sigh. “Sorry. Look, it’s just—this is just _weird,_ alright?”

“I’m sure it is,” Dr. Grey says, and she does sound sympathetic. “I know this can’t be easy for either one of you, but—Wash, I trust Epsilon has explained to you how vital it is for you to remain calm?”

“Yeah,” Wash says. “Yeah, I…I understand.”

“Good,” Dr. Grey says briskly. “Epsilon? Do you?”

“Yup,” Epsilon says. “Read you loud and clear. No arguing.”

“No speaking to each other at _all_ ,” Dr. Grey says sternly, “if you can’t keep it civil.”

“Alright,” the two of them mutter in unison, and Epsilon’s guilt intensifies. It’s too difficult to look at Epsilon so Wash closes his eyes, but he cannot escape him, cannot leave the presence in his mind, cannot even get up and walk out of this hospital room.

He turns once more to his scattered memories instead.

* * *

Waking up out of the fog in his head isn’t easy. He falls several times during his attempted ascent back to consciousness, and although Epsilon stays close, he knows better than to try to help Wash. The air seems to grow thicker and more restricting the closer that he gets to the light. It wraps around his throat, fogs his eyes, blocks all sound from his ears—he’ll be trapped here forever, forever, _forever_ —

“Good morning, sleeping beauty.”

Wash cracks a single eye open, squinting in the bright light. For a moment, he can swear that he’s in the middle of an open field, all blue skies and fresh air, before realizing that he’s in the infirmary, Tucker peering into his face.

The look on Tucker’s face is neither expectant or alarmed as he waits for Wash to wake up fully, and for a while Wash simply breathes, focusing on the softness of his eyes and the firm press of Tucker’s in his own. It takes nearly five minutes for him to remember how to speak, and Tucker says nothing, just taps his fingers against Wash’s palm and hums an absent-minded tune.

“Hi,” Wash finally whispers, and then frowns, startled by just how weak his voice sounds. “How long…”

“About two days,” Tucker says, his fingers now tracing patterns on Wash’s wrist.

“Two…?” He half-turns to Epsilon, frowning. “You didn’t tell me…”

“What, that it’d been that long?” Epsilon’s back in his armor now that he’s projected in the real world, but Wash can still picture the eye roll. “Uh, does it fucking _matter?_ You were kind of busy. I mean—understandably. Busy. _Obviously_.”

Tucker tilts his head curiously at that, but all he says is, “You _did_ just have brain surgery, you know.”

Something about the phrase sticks in Wash’s head, and he frowns at Tucker. “I did?”

“Well, yeah…”

“But I…these things are still in my head.”

Tucker’s face looks slightly alarmed at this, as if he’s let something slip he wasn’t supposed to, but before Wash can think too hard on it, he falls into a restless sleep once more.

* * *

Wash thinks he wakes up several more times, to Tucker, to Dr. Grey, to the Reds, to Carolina’s hand over his, but he’s half-convinced that it is all still a dream. The next time he can stay awake, he looks up to see Dr. Grey standing at the foot of his bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Full,” he says. It’s a little easier to stay conscious now, and his words come a bit stronger. “My head. It feels full.”

“I imagine it does,” she says, coming around to the side of his bed and shooing Tucker out of the way. “Can you tell me your name?”

“My name is Agent Washington. My friends call me Wash.”

“Do you know my name?”

“Emily,” he says, and there’s an almost undetectable tightening around her eyes. “Emily Grey.”

“And do you know where you are?”

“Armonia.”

She nods, pleased. “Good, Wash, _very_ good. Follow my finger?”

He does. Dr. Grey runs through a series of other medical tests, running her medical scanner over him and checking his implantation site. “Well,” she says, stepping back. “I must say, Wash, you are remarkably lucid considering the surgery you just underwent. Are you in any pain?”

He knows that none of them miss the way his eyes flick to Tucker, hesitating. “It’s okay,” Tucker says. He squeezes Wash’s feet. “Don’t worry about me.”

Wash nods, looking back at Dr. Grey. “Yes. But it’s—it’s more like a pressure, than a pain. Heavy.”

“And what about the—”

“Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?”

Dr. Grey stops speaking and regards him for a moment before sitting carefully in Tucker’s vacated chair. “Wash—”

“I just thought you would,” Wash says, trying to keep his voice casual. “Ask me, I mean. You haven’t and I…thought you would want me to talk about it.”

“I’m going to,” Dr. Grey says softly. “And I would like for you to be as honest with me as you can, but…not yet. For now, Epsilon has told us enough, and I don’t want to push you.”

“Okay,” Wash says slowly. “Why?”

Dr. Grey hesitates, then glances at Tucker. “Tucker, would you give us a moment?”

Tucker doesn’t look happy about this in the slightest, but he nods, glancing at Wash. “I’ll be right outside the door, okay?”

“Okay,” Wash says, and with a final squeeze of his hand, Tucker leaves.

“You know that the nanobots are still inside your brain,” Dr. Grey says. It’s more of a statement than a question, but Wash nods anyway and she continues.

“Yeah. They’re still behind the wall that Epsilon built.”

“Good. That’s good.” Dr. Grey squares her shoulders and looks at him. “Wash, it is vital that they stay there. The slightest elevation in your blood pressure—the most minute spike in your heartbeat—any of that could cause them to break free.”

“I just have to stay calm,” Wash says, echoing Epsilon’s words from after he first deactivated them. “Yeah. You’ve told me this already.”

“And I’m telling you again, because that’s how vital it is,” Dr. Grey says. “It isn’t just a matter of you avoiding stress or fear. You cannot even consider exercising, or even any sort of sexual intimacy with Tucker—”

“Alright, _alright_ ,” Wash says hastily. “We don’t need to get into the specifics—”

“Even you leaving this bed without my knowledge could be disastrous—”

“ _Okay_ ,” Wash says. “I get it.”

Dr. Grey nods. “Good. It’s why I don’t want to go into too much detail about what happened during your captivity just yet, as I am sure those memories are very upsetting to you. For now, I just want you to understand that you are safe, and—”

“And bedridden,” Wash says dully. Tucker’s words about his brain surgery come rushing back, and Wash decides to cut the chase. “You operated on me and couldn’t get them out, could you?”

Dr. Grey sets her jaw before dropping all pretense as well. “No. I couldn’t.”

“So…so I just stay bedridden for the rest of my life?”

“Of _course not,_ silly,” Dr. Grey says. “I just haven’t gotten them out _yet._ ”

Wash’s spirits lift slightly at the confident look on her face. “So you _do_ know how to?”

“Oh yes,” she says calmly. “I know precisely how to get those things out of your brain.”

“So then…well, what’s the problem?” he eyes her. “I know there’s a problem. You’re not telling me something.”

“The problem,” she says with a sigh. “Is that it’s a two-person surgery.”

Wash frowns a little. “You need an assistant? Can’t…can’t Pickles, or Sarge…?”

“No, I don’t need an _assistant._ I need another _neurosurgeon_.”

“We don’t _have_ another neurosurgeon.”

“Well,” Dr. Grey says slowly. “We _do,_ actually. He just isn’t here.”

“And…where is he?”

“The outskirts of the planet.” Dr. Grey opens her datapad suddenly, pulling up a map and showing him a map. “Right about _here._ He was something of a freelance surgeon, bouncing around between the two armies before leaving to help the villages who had no medical attention. We worked together for a time. Never saw hands like his, unless I was looking at my own…anyway. He even has experience working with hardware in a human brain. I’ve put a message out to him, and he’s on his way to Armonia.”

“So…so what you’re _saying,_ ” Wash says, sitting up a little straighter. “What you’re _saying_ is that someone else is going to be performing brain surgery on me. On my implants.”

“What I’m _saying_ is that _Alexander and I_ are going to be performing the surgery on you,” she corrects. “Together.”

“Why?”

“Why…what?”

“Why—well, two things actually. Why is someone who has experience working with neural implants on Chorus?” And why is he interested in coming here to operate on my head?”

“He’s coming because he’s my friend and I asked him.” When Wash raises an eyebrow, she relents a little. “ _And_ because he can’t resist a case like yours. No neurosurgeon could. As for why he’s on Chorus, I have no idea.”

“You have no idea? He’s your friend and you have no idea why someone so talented is on this planet?”

She narrows her eyes at him. “ _I_ am equally as talented, and _I_ am on this planet.”

“That’s different.”

“How so?”

“Because—because—you made it sound as if this guy just _appeared_ one day and started helping out.”

“Well…”

“That’s what happened, isn’t it?”

“Well…yes. It is.”

“And you don’t find this suspicious?”

Dr. Grey shrugged. “I didn’t much care, to be quite honest. He was a doctor and we needed him. We were grateful for the help.”

“And now you want him to come help operate on _me_.”

“Wash—”

“What if I say no?’

Dr. Grey sighs, folding her arms across her chest. “You mean, if you refuse this surgery? If you refuse to let us both operate? Is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Wash says.

“Wash, I—of _course_ I’m not going to force any sort of surgery on you that you don’t consent to, particularly not one as invasive as this. But I need you to understand that if you refuse it, you will die.”

“I know,” he says, surprised. “I’m not worried about _that._ I’m worried about someone else being allowed to play in my head before it happens.”

He realizes even as the words leave his mouth that he’s said the wrong thing, and Dr. Grey freezes, setting her datapad down on Wash’s nightstand with a slap. “What did you just say?”

“I didn’t—mean it like…that.”

“I’m curious how you _did_ mean it,” Dr. Grey says, her voice calm and measured. “Because it sounds to me like you’re fully aware that you might die and you’re okay with this.”

“Well—”

“Wash,” Dr. Grey says, in a way that makes Wash suspect she’s struggling to keep her voice level. “Don’t you dare give up on yourself.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Wash protests. “I’m just…trying to be prepared.”

“For _what?_ This surgery? Or your inevitable death on the operating table?”

“Emily, I know you’ll do everything in your power to pull this off, but…”

“Wash, stop it,” she says sharply. “I _cannot_ go into this surgery thinking you aren’t going to fight as hard as you possibly can.”

“I’ll fight,” Wash says quickly. “Trust me, I’ll fight. It would kill them if I didn’t.”

“Them?”

“Tucker and Caboose,” Wash says. “Carolina. The Reds. They risked their lives for me, and I…I can’t let that be in vain.”

Dr. Grey pauses, looking at him thoughtfully for a moment, as if she’s choosing her next words carefully. “It’s lovely that you want to fight for your friends,” she finally says, “but Wash…you need to fight for yourself, too.”

“Oh.” The silence sits a moment too long before Wash nods. “Oh, okay. No—I know that. I will. I’ll fight.”

Dr. Grey looks as if she wants to say something else, but she doesn’t, just purses her lips together and nods.

Wash closes his head for a moment, trying to quell the rising pressure in his head. After a moment, it subsides. “I still don’t like it. Someone else in my head.”

“I don’t like it either,” she says. “Not one little bit. Believe me, I would love nothing more than to take care of this myself, but…”

She trails off, glancing for a moment out the window. “I need help,” she says finally. “Sometimes, we all need a little help.”

Wash wants to argue further, but he bites his tongue, fully aware of just how difficult it must have been for her to reach this conclusion. “Okay,” he says. “If you think this is best then…okay.”

“You’ll consent to this surgery?”

Wash nods. “Just…just get these things out of my head. Okay?”

Her hand finds his and squeezes hard. “I swear,” she says solemnly. “I swear it.”

“Thank you.”

She stands then. “He should arrive in two days. Until then—” she smiles. “Well, I’m sure Tucker would like to see you. I think five minutes apart is a bit much for him.”

Wash tries to keep the moony smile off his face at that, fails miserably, and gives it up. The mere thought of Tucker fills him with warmth, and although he was in unbearable pain and nearly unconscious at the time, he knows that he will not soon be forgetting the way Tucker had lifted him off that gurney and carried him away from that awful room. Had carried him to safety.

Had carried him _home._

That stupid grin is still on his face when Tucker walks in, but Tucker just takes a seat and says, “So you’re cool with ‘the Architect’”—he draws little air quotes with his fingers—“operating on you?”

“I don’t really have a choice,” Wash says, and then lifts an eyebrow. “Wait, the _Architect?_ ”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Apparently that’s what he calls himself. Or what everyone else calls him. Whatever. He sounds like a tool, if you ask me.”

“Oh, _please,_ ” Epsilon says, popping up to join the conversation. “Like you wouldn’t give yourself a nickname if you were some hotshot surgeon.”

“Well I would, but it would be _cool,_ not douchey ….”

“Oh, really? And just what would this super cool nickname be?”

They lapse into an argument and Wash settles back against his pillows, listening to the familiar sounds.

He does not focus on the way Epsilon keeps looking over at him, or the anxious ball of energy that hums in his mind.

* * *

Wash spends the next two days in bed, leaving only to use the bathroom and take a few laps around his room. Dr. Grey is always watching him like a hawk during these moments, and he is winded far too easily, but Wash revels in the simple freedom of having control over his own muscles. He’ll never take it for granted again.

The sim troopers and Carolina are the only ones who come to visit him, although to hear the Reds tell it, it isn’t for lack of trying. “Have to drag about two dozen cadets down the hall an hour!” Sarge grumbles. “You’d think we had some actor from that show they’re always watching. Anatomy Grey or some similar hogwash—”

 _“¿Estas hablando de Grey’s Anatomy_?” Lopez mutters. _“¿La programa que siempre estas viendo?”_

“Exactly, Lopez! Nothing short of trivialities and trash—anyway, you’d think we had some hotshot action star instead of an ugly Blue sleeping the days away!”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Grif says loudly. “Moving on to something more interesting…”

“Oh please,” Simmons scoffs. “Like you’re not the first in line to watch that stupid show!”

“Stupid show? _Stupid_ show? Who was the one crying last week when _what’s her face_ died—”

“Her name was Dr. Jasmine _Lotoya_ and she was an _icon_ —”

The conversation stays light and inconsequential, and Wash lets them keep it that way. There is a part of him, a very large part, that wants to tell them that he gets it: the way they have all been standing guard outside of his hospital room, keeping anyway from seeing him in his weakened state, but he knows full well that would be the fastest way to get every single of Red Team save Donut to shut down.

“Fucking _Blue_ Team, always crying and having group hugs and slumber parties and shit,” Grif had mumbled the first time he’d stomped into Wash’s hospital room to find Caboose and Tucker conked out in chairs at Wash’s side. Tucker had argued vehemently against this statement, but Wash can’t really deny that it is based in some truth.

“We should have you guys guarding the city walls,” Wash says instead. “No one would get passed you all.”

“Damn straight,” Donut says proudly, and he gently pats Wash’s hands.

* * *

Wash wakes silently that night, mouth falling open in a gasp that never leaves him. He clutches the sheets in his hands, glancing around wildly. The monitors. The beds. Tucker and Caboose, sound asleep on the beds next to his. And Epsilon, thrumming with an anxious exhaustion in his head. “You okay?” he asks Wash cautiously.

Wash frowns, trying to remember just what it was that woke him. It hadn’t been a dream, but rather, the beginnings of one, mere fingers of a nightmare that had been severed before they could grab hold of him. It’s this, more than anything, that has Wash straightening up in bed. He _should_ be having nightmares. He should _absolutely_ be having nightmares from what happened to him, and he’s not and because of it, he can’t sleep. “You’re doing something,” he says suddenly to Epsilon. “To the nightmares. You’re stopping them.”

Epsilon throws him an unimpressed look. “ _Of course_ I’m stopping them.”

“Well, _don’t_ ,” Wash snaps. “I don’t want you interfering in my head.”

“Wash,” Epsilon says calmly. “ _You can’t have nightmares like this right now_. Okay? You just can’t. Your brain cannot handle it. Just let me do this.”

“I hate it.”

“Look,” Epsilon says tiredly. “Let’s just—deal with it later, okay? Dr. Grey’s right. You don’t need to think about it. Neither do I, come to that.”

Epsilon tries to hide the wave of anger that courses through him, but Wash catches it anyway and looks at him, surprised. “Oh come on,” Epsilon says, when he notices Wash staring. “Who could watch this bullshit and not want to tear those fuckers limb from limb?”

“It’s fine,” Wash says automatically. “I’m fine.”

Epsilon tilts his head suspiciously, but all he says is, “You should get some sleep.”

“ _You_ should go back to Carolina.”

“I _can’t_.”

“ _Epsilon_.”

“I mean, I _will,_ obviously, I just—not yet. Okay?”

“Why?”

Epsilon sighs loudly. “Wash, you know why.”

He supposes he does. He supposes that it would be pretty shitty if, after everything his team went through to get him back, he kicked it now. He supposes that Epsilon doesn’t want to see his handiwork undone. He supposes—

“Oh my _God,_ Wash, that’s not why.”

Wash startles out of his thoughts, glancing at Epsilon . “What?”

Epsilon huffs, glancing between him and Tucker, who’s dead asleep in a nearby hospital bed. “You’re an idiot,” he says finally.

“I’m—what?”

“I said, you’re an idiot,” Epsilon groans, flopping back on Wash’s nightstand and throwing an arm dramatically over his visor. “The biggest fucking idiot I’ve ever—”

“Epsilon—”

“I’m gonna go back to Carolina, alright? Obviously. I just—”

The stab of jealously is so potent and unexpected that Wash doesn’t have time to hide it. There’s an awful, endless groan, like the creaking of glass and metal, and they both glance over inward in alarm towards where the nanobots are concealed.

“Wash,” Epsilon says calmly. “Look, just—just breathe or some shit, okay?”

“I _am_ breathing,” Wash snaps, but even as he does he wonders just how many times Epsilon has to tell Carolina to breathe. The glass cylinder shudders again, the faintest cracking sound splitting the air like a gunshot, and Wash sits back heavily, clutching at his head.

Silence falls and Wash breathes in deep, letting the minutes tick by as Epsilon leans against the wall, running his hands repeatedly through his hair. Nearly five minutes pass, and Epsilon finally leans forward. “Look.”

“Don’t,” Wash says abruptly. “Just don’t—I don’t want to talk about Freelancer. Okay?”

He thinks about it anyway, memories that he has yet to box up flickering past his eyes, of those few days when Epsilon had been his A.I.; days that he rarely allowed himself to think about anymore. Lost days. Meaningless days, days when he wasn’t good enough or strong enough—

“Dude, come on, it wasn’t _like_ that.”

Wash groans. “I really, _really_ wish you weren’t in my head right now.”

“That makes two of us.”

“So _go_.”

“I will,” Epsilons says, but he doesn’t, and they’re back to square one.

“You’re still here.”

“Of course I’m still here! God, you’re so fucking dense, you know that? So goddamn stubborn—”

“Epsilon, just….” Wash takes a breath. “Let’s just stop. Okay?”

He doesn’t speak again through the night, and neither does Epsilon, but they sit there in silence until Wash falls asleep once more.

* * *

Wash wakes to find Carolina sitting at his bedside, helmet in her lap with Epsilon perched on top of it. She sets it aside when she notices Wash watching them, standing abruptly. “Wash.”

He’s seen her several times since his arrival back in Armonia, but always surrounded by the others. It hasn’t been the two of them yet, and Wash is struck by a powerful sense of déjà vu: waking up in Freelancer, to a mind heavy and loopy with drugs, and Carolina, standing at his bedside. “Hey, boss.”

When he reaches for her hand she slips it in his, squeezing. “You just missed Tucker. Epsilon and I are taking bets on how quickly he’ll be back.”

Wash grins as Epsilon grunts in assent. “What does the winner get?”

Carolina’s half-smile is fading now as she looks at him. “The doctor is here. I’m supposed to let them know when you’re awake.”

“Well…” Wash sits up a little straighter, smoothing his hands over the sheets. “I’m up, so…let’s call him in, I guess.”

Carolina doesn’t move. “We don’t have to.”

“What?”

“The doctor. We don’t…Wash, you don’t _have_ to do this, if you don’t want to.”

“Uh, yes he _does_ ,” Epsilon mutters, and she shoots him a fierce glare. “What? He does! He _does_ if he wants to _live_.”

“I don’t like it,” Carolina says, and Wash suddenly suspects that they’d already had this argument while he was sleeping. “We don’t even know if this is going to _work_.”

“Carolina…” Wash sighs. “If I had any choice, then I wouldn’t be doing this. But I don’t, and he’s here, so…let’s just call him in and get it over with.”

Carolina nods, putting a hand to her helmet just as Tucker walks in the room. “You’re awake,” he says, taking a seat on Wash’s bed and putting a hand to Wash’s head as if he’s taking his temperature. “Feeling okay in there?”

“I’m okay,” he says automatically. “Little full, but…I’m okay.”

“They’re on their way,” Carolina says, letting a hand fall from her helmet’s radio dial. “Along with all the Reds and Caboose, of course.”

“Of course,” Wash says wryly, but his spirits lift slightly all the same.

It isn’t long before there are footsteps down the hall, the chatter of voices growing louder and louder. A strange and unexpected tension locks up his bones, and Wash turns to Epsilon, who has his head canted towards the door and has gone so utterly _still_ that Wash thinks he might have frozen. “Epsilon, what’s wrong?”

Epsilon does not answer. The footsteps grow louder until the door is swinging open, and—

Panic. Wash’s head is suddenly abuzz with panic and he grips at the sheets before realizing that it’s not his own. It’s been so long since he’s experienced the sensation of someone else panicking inside his head that he’d almost forgotten what it felt like. A memory is pulled unbidden to the front of his surface, of Epsilon’s disastrous implantation into his neural interface. _Wash is on the floor, screaming, the bewildered voices of the doctors barely distinguishable over Allison’s, there are hands on his shoulders and a voice screaming, “Secure him!” as Wash slams his hands into the ground and tries not to be sick, and Epsilon screams and screams and screams—_

Something in his head _burns_ , sharp and sudden, a fault line appearing in the glass that conceals the nanobots. Breathe. He must breathe, must be calm and still, must not let the class crack further. Tucker’s eyebrows furrow in concern as Wash puts a hand to his chest, inhaling long and deep. “Wash? You okay?”

“Yeah,” Wash says distantly. “Yeah, I’m…”

He’s half-turning to where he can see Epsilon glitching in his peripheral when he catches sight of the man in the doorway for the first time, and familiarity hits him so hard it leaves him breathless once more.

_“Good afternoon, Agent—”_

_The doctor hesitates, glancing down at his clipboard. “Washington,” he finishes, after a moment of silence that stretches on too long. “I am the Doctor, of Project Freelancer.”_

Epsilon’s hologram shatters into bits of blue, but Wash can still feel his panic. Wash shoves it hard to the back of his mind and half climbs out of his bed, Tucker’s hand on his arm the only thing keeping him back. He says something, something low and concerned, but Wash does not hear him, does not look at him. He has eyes for no one else in the room, because—because—

“Oh my _God,_ ” he whispers, voice strangled _. “Tronosky?”_

The doctor’s eyes are wide behind his glasses, one hand gripping the doorframe. “Agent Washington?”

The space between them feels both miles wide and entirely too close, a strange mixture of claustrophobia and unbearable distance. _I thought I’d never see you again,_ Wash says, or doesn’t say. _You saved my life, and I—_

“I thought you were dead,” they say in unison, and Wash shakes his head firmly, because he doesn’t understand, no one understands—

“No— _no_ —you don’t get it, I saw you die, _I saw them kill you_ …Felix killed you…”

But that wasn’t real, that wasn’t _right_ , they _hadn’t_ killed Tronosky because Tronosky wasn’t on Chorus, that room had been fake, a sick lie they’d drawn up to make him lose his mind—

Looking into his old doctor’s face now, Wash thinks it just may have worked.

“That wasn’t real,” he mutters. Wash brings his hands up to his temples, pressing hard and breathing deep. “That—that wasn’t real, they didn’t kill you…did they?”

They’d killed someone, and they’d killed those two nurses who looked so very like his old aids it nothing made sense, it was wrong, all wrong…

Dr. Tronosky crosses the room to him, clumsy and halting. He stops as Tucker stands up and slams a hand on his chest, hard. “Whoa whoa _whoa!_ Not another step, asshole. I want to know _who you are_ and _what the fuck_ is going on!”

Wash reaches his hand out passed Tucker and holds tight to Dr. Tronosky’s arm, struck by an overwhelming desire to make sure that he isn’t a hallucination. The doctor reaches up to cover Wash’s hand with his own, and the warmth of his skin is—

“Real?” he asks, voice cracking, head pulsing. “You’re—you’re _real.”_

“I’m real,” Dr. Tronosky says, stunned. “I—”

Wash is far from convinced, but he doesn’t care. He has imagined this moment so many times, imagined what he would say if he could see his old doctor again, if he were given the chance to say thank you.  The moment is here and all of Wash’s words fail him as he lunges forward and pulls the doctor into a fierce hug. Dr. Tronosky’s arms come up around him and squeeze tightly, and Tucker throws up his hands and says, “Okay, what the _fuck_ is even happening?”

Wash wants to answer, to tell him, to explain that this moment, real or not, is a goddamned miracle, but he’s breathing as if he just ran a marathon, and his heart is beating so fast inside his chest, so fast, and suddenly it’s impossible to breath, to think, to see—

Something shatters in his head, and he turns his gaze inward to see the glass cylinder that Epsilon had constructed break into millions of pieces, and the nanobots tumble free.

His body goes limp, hands falling from around Dr. Tronosky’s shoulders, and through the haze he can just barely make out Tucker hauling Dr. Tronosky away from him and slamming him up a nearby wall, before his vision shakes to black, and he sees no more.


	33. Chapter 33

Wash’s body goes slack and Tucker _moves_.

It is, he will realize later, the exact opposite of the reaction he’d had when Wash’s radio cut out all those weeks ago, when Tucker had been paralyzed by fear and a bone deep knowledge that Wash was _gone,_ and that they might never see him again.

Wash is not gone now—Wash is _here_ , inches away. He is not going _anywhere,_ and Tucker will _die_ before he lets anyone else hurt him. A deep, reassuring calm drops into the center of Tucker’s skull and he moves faster than anyone in the room, faster even than Carolina. He lunges forward, grabs the new doctor by the back of his jacket, slams him up against the wall, and shoves the hilt of his sword so hard against the side of his face that the doctor’s glasses nearly fall off. The monitors by Wash’s bedside start to beep with increasing intensity as he falls shaking to the mattress, and in his peripheral Tucker sees Dr. Grey scramble to his side.

“Don’t know if you’ve ever seen one of these before,” Tucker says, pressing the sword hilt harder still against the doctor’s jaw, “but this is a fucking _laser sword._ You’ve got five seconds to tell me who the _fuck_ you are and why Wash knows your name before I send it straight through your brain.”

The bastard, Tucker is displeased to see, isn’t even _looking_ at him. He’s gazing over Tucker’s shoulder at Wash, eyes wide and stunned. “Is— _Emily_ —is he alright? Check his blood pressure levels—”

“I’m _working on it,_ Alexander—”

“And did you—“

“Hey,” Tucker snaps, and he shoves the doctor back harder into the wall. “I _asked_ you a fucking _question_.”

The doctor finally looks at him, bewildered. “What?”

Tucker wants to scream. “ _Who the fuck are you_ and why shouldn’t I kill you with my laser sword?!”

“My name is Doctor Alexander Tronosky,” the doctor says, “and you need to let me go, _now_.”

“Uh, fat fucking chance of _that._ ”

“Tucker,” Donut whispers in the background, “maybe you should ask him these questions _later_ —”

“I’m asking him them _now_. Why does Wash know your name? Who do you work for?”

“I don’t work for _anyone_ —”

“Did you have something to do with what they did to Wash?” Tucker asks. The calm center in his head is starting to pulse, pounding with an anger that has his fingers twitching on the sword. “Are you working with Charon? _Did you do something to his head?”_

Dr. Tronosky finally seems to understand that Tucker is not even in the general vicinity of fucking around, and his eyes light up with understanding. “ _No!_ No no—nothing like that—I _do_ know Wash, but it wasn’t from his time in captivity—let me explain—”

“Wait a minute,” Carolina says slowly. She appears on Tucker’s left side, head tilted. “ _I_ know you.”

“I imagine that you do.” Dr. Tronosky nods his head at Tucker as best he’s able with the sword jammed up under his chin. “In fact, I imagine that most of you do.”

Tucker furrows his eyebrows. “What—I don’t _know_ you, I’ve never seen you before in my life!”

Even as he says it, he knows it’s not true. There’s something in the very back of his brain trying to shove its way forward, something that stirred when he heard the name _Tronosky_ —he knows that name, but from where, and why?

A few heartbeats of silence pass, the only sounds coming from the monitors and Dr. Grey’s muttered instructions to Dr. Pickles. Dr. Tronosky is watching them impatiently. “Look, I was the—”

“Freelancer,” Carolina says suddenly. “You were the doctor who wired us all for our implants in Freelancer.”

There’s a flash of red on Tucker’s other side as Sarge shoves his face right up near Dr. Tronosky’s. “Huh. Well, I’ll be damned! He is!”

Tucker doesn’t turn around, but he can practically feel a release of tension in the room, and Donut even mutters an, “Oh, thank goodness!”

“What— _guys!_ Come on! This isn’t any better!” Tucker sputters. “This whole thing is his fault in the first place!”

“But Tucker, don’t you see?” Donut asks earnestly. “If he’s the one who wired the implants, he’s the best chance we’ve got to help fix Wash!”

“Wash wouldn’t need to be fixed if he didn’t have these fucking wires in his head!” Tucker glares at the doctor. “What are you even _doing here_ on this planet?”

“A question that I myself would _love_ to hear the answer to,” Dr. Grey says, “as well as why you didn’t tell me that you worked for _Freelancer_ —”

Dr. Tronosky sighs. “Emily, I couldn’t—”

“Yes yes, I know—tragic past, aura of mystery, et cetera, et cetera—right now, I don’t care. Right _now,_ I need you to come help me fix my patient. Tucker, let him go.”

Tucker grinds his teeth together. “No.”

“Tucker—”

“I said no! Look, did no one else see the way Wash reacted when this fucker walked into the room? Did everyone miss the part where _Church_ noped the fuck out? I’m not letting him within ten fucking feet of Wash!”

“Listen—Tucker, right?—I’m not going to hurt him.”

“Bullshit!”

“What possible reason could I have for wanting to hurt Wash?” Dr. Tronosky snaps. “In a room full of all of his…his _friends_ , no less?”

“Gee, I don’t know,” Tucker says sarcastically. “What possible reason could you have for helping to put all of this shit in everyone’s heads in the first place?”

“I’m not proud of what I did—”

_“I don’t give a shit about your secret pain!”_

“ _Enough!_ ” Dr. Grey cries. “Tucker, let him down. Alexander, get over here, _now._ We need to get him into surgery immediately—Pickles, wheel me that stretcher, please— _Tucker!_ Now!”

“NO!” Tucker shouts. He tightens his grip on his sword. “No! I’m not letting him get in there and fuck up Wash’s head—I’m not letting _anyone_ hurt Wash, not while I’m fucking _standing_ right _here_! I _won’t!_ ”

“I wouldn’t hurt Wash,” Dr. Tronosky protests. “I wouldn’t—”

“You already fucking did! This is _your_ fault—why did he react that way when you walked in? Huh?”

“It’s been—a long time, a _very_ long time since we’ve last seen each other, and the circumstances in which were did were less than ideal—”

“You mean, when you were shoving a _rampant A.I. fragment_ into his _head_ —”

“ _No_ ,” Dr. Tronosky snaps, “When I was operating on him in Recovery—after the ship crashed…”

“They threw you out,” Carolina says suddenly. She hasn’t moved from Tucker’s side. “Of the hospital. Didn’t they?”

“Yes—how did you—”

“Enough.”

Tucker freezes as there’s something sharp pressed to the side of his neck, and Dr. Grey’s voice rings in his ear. “Tucker, you have five seconds to let the doctor go or I’ll make sure you don’t wake up for the rest of the day.”

It’s a syringe, Tucker realizes, a syringe, filled with God knows what, that she’s got pressed to the side of his neck. “I— _can’t_ —what if he fucks up, what if you’re _wrong?!_ ”

“I’m not wrong,” Dr. Grey says. “Tucker, I don’t want to hurt you, but I _will_ if it means saving Wash’s life.”

“But—“

“Five.”

“ _You can’t just_ —”

“Four—“

“Come on!”

“Three.”

“ _What if_ —“

“Two!”

Tucker steps back, cursing fluently, and Dr. Grey wastes no time in yanking Dr. Tronosky over to Wash. “I’m coming with you.”

Dr. Grey doesn’t look at him. “You most certainly are _not._ You know the rule. No loved ones allowed in the operating room.”

“But—“ Tucker casts his eyes around desperately. “ _Sarge_. Sarge can go in there with you, right? He knows medical shit.”

“Might not be a bad idea,” Sarge says. He eyes Dr. Tronosky. “I trust your judgment, darlin’, but might not hurt to have an extra set of hands and a fully loaded shotgun in there.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Dr. Grey snaps, as they lift Wash onto the stretcher. “Fine—but you need to scrub in— _no armor_ —”

“And you’ll protect them, right?” Tucker persists, looking at Sarge. “You’ll protect Wash and Dr. Grey and—and Pickles—if this asshole turns out to be a nutter?”

“As the interim leader of Blue Team—“

“ _Oh my God_ —“

“—and devoted lover to this fair lady here, I will do my duty,” Sarge says grandly, before sweeping out of the room to, presumably, scrub up.

Dr. Grey eyes Tucker suspiciously as he approaches the stretcher, but he only takes Wash’s hand as they push through the doors and set a brisk pace towards the ICU. Wash’s whole body is shaking, face twisted in pain, and Tucker gives his fingers a firm squeeze. “Hey. You’re gonna be okay. You hear me? If you kick it after all of this I swear to _God_ I’m gonna—”

“Tucker, we’ve arrived—I’m sorry, but _you have to stay here._ ”

Tucker blinks, looking up at the ICU doors. “I—right, fine.” He glances down once more at Wash, then bends down, pressing their foreheads together briefly. “If you leave me, I’m gonna be real fucking pissed. Okay? Don’t—don’t leave me. Please.”

He lets Wash’s hand fall from his own as they push the stretcher forward, grabbing hold of Dr. Tronosky’s lab coat once more. “If you hurt him, I’ll kill you.”

Dr. Tronosky looks at him appraisingly. “Yes…yes, I believe you will.”

He pulls out of Tucker’s grasp and Tucker blinks after him, wondering just why the doctor sounds so fucking _happy_ about it.

Carolina’s hand fastens around Tucker’s arm as he makes to follow them automatically. “You heard her, Tucker.”

Tucker tries to shrug her hand off, but she just tightens her grip. “How can you be _okay_ with this?!”

“I’m _not_ okay with this,” Carolina snaps. “Nothing about this is okay—but—Tucker, I don’t think he’s going to hurt Wash.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No, I don’t,” she says. “But—Freelancer ruined everyone’s lives, including his.”

“ _Oh my God_ I don’t care—”

“Tex found him.”

“What?”

Carolina sighs, taking a seat on the bench and unsealing her helmet. “After Freelancer. After the ship crashed. I was keeping tabs on everyone, and I know she found him.”

“So fucking _what?_ ”

“ _So_ ,” Carolina says, “she found him, and she _didn’t_ kill him.”

The _so what_ is on Tucker’s tongue once more, but he bites it back. He takes a seat next to Carolina instead. “She didn’t?”

“No. I don’t know why, or what they talked about, but….I don’t think she would’ve let him walk away for no reason. Not after…well. Not after what they did to Alpha, or to her.”

Tucker wants to argue, but he can’t quite find it in him to do so. Donut appears once more—Tucker hadn’t even noticed him leave—with a basket of sandwiches, apples, and—

“Is that hot chocolate? Where did you even _get_ that?”

“It sure is,” Donut says, pressing a thermos and sandwich into his hands. “And never you mind where I got it. Now, drink up.”

There’s a dangerous look in Donut’s eyes that warns Tucker not to argue, so he takes a dutiful bite out of his sandwich. “Thanks, Donut.”

The three of them sit there in silence, until Caboose, Grif, and Simmons come down the hallway. Donut swats Grif’s hands away as he reaches for Tucker’s half-eaten sandwich. “Grif! You just had lunch!”

“So? He’s not going to eat that!”

“Yes, he is,” Donut says fiercely, and Tucker hastens to take another few bites of his sandwich.

“Where’s Sarge?” Simmons asks.

“ _Sarge,”_ Tucker says, taking a vicious bite of his apple, “is in there making sure the new wonder surgeon doesn’t fuck up Wash’s brain.”

There’s a moment of silence in which everyone exchanges looks. Tucker watches Donut, Grif, and Simmons, have a full conversation consisting of nothing but eyebrow raises and shrugs before Grif says, “Wait, _why_ don’t we like this new doctor?”

“Because he’s the one who wired our brains with these fucking implants!”

It doesn’t quite have the dramatic effect he hoped for, although Simmons does raise his eyebrows and say, “Wait, Dr. Tronosky?”

“Bingo.”

“How,” Grif asks the ceiling, “ _how_ do you remember his name?”

“He performed _brain surgery_ on us, Grif!”

“ _Yeah,_ like a hundred years ago!”

“I remember the nice doctor man,” Caboose says serenely. “He did not get angry when I asked him a lot of questions. I’m glad he is helping fix Wash.”

Tucker throws up his hands, nearly upending his thermos of hot chocolate in the process. “Am I the only one who has a problem with this?!”

“Probably,” Grif says, throwing himself down on the bench and eyeing their food imploringly. Carolina rolls her eyes, and, to Donut’s dismay, tears off a chunk of her sandwich to hand to Grif. “Really though, why are your panties in a knot about this, exactly?”

“My _panties_ are in a _knot_ because Wash’s heart rate went like, through the fucking roof when that dude walked into the room! Which is the exact opposite of what was supposed to happen! Wash was supposed to be staying calm. How does it makes sense that a guy who made him panic is operating on his head?!”

“But he didn’t panic,” Donut insists. “He was just surprised! I thought the two of them looked happy to see each other!”

“Oh, they did not—“

“They _did._ ” Donut pauses. “Wash _hugged_ him, Tucker. Don’t forget that part. Wash doesn’t just go around hugging people, you know.”

Tucker sighs, leaning back against the wall and trying to remember every detail. Wash’s eyes had gone wide, and he’d half risen from the bed, and he’d said the doctor’s name—

Shocked. He had sounded shocked.

“It sounds to me like we couldn’t have asked for someone better to operate on Wash,” Simmons said hesitantly, eyeing Tucker. When Tucker doesn’t contradict him, he continues, voice stronger. “I mean, no one knows these implants better—he invented them, after all—“

“Wait, he did?”

“Well, yeah,” Simmons says. “I mean, not neural implants in _general_ , but—he invented the type that all Freelancer personal were equipped with. He’s done hundreds and _hundreds_ of implantations—”

“Simmons would know,” Grif interjects. “He probably asked the doctor to recount every single one of them for some boring research project..”

“Shut _up,_ Grif,” Simmons snaps. “The point is, if anyone can help Dr. Grey fix this, it’s him.”

“I don’t like it,” Tucker says finally. “I don’t trust him.”

“You don’t have to trust him,” Donut says gently. “You just have to let him do his job.”

“Well, we don’t have much of a choice, do we?”

They all sigh, glancing as one at the door.

“No,” Carolina says, her tone accepting though certainly not happy. “We don’t.”

* * *

The hours stretch on. Britton and Kennedy show up again not long into Wash’s surgery, with a fair amount of the other cadets trailing behind. Jensen throws her arms around Simmons and doesn’t let go for a long time, Palomo starts crying, and Bitters cracks inappropriate jokes until Prajapati shoves him into a wall. It’s a mess, but Tucker is grateful for their company and noise. Kimball appears a little while later and sits with them as Carolina fills her in on the way Wash had reacted towards the doctor.

“Yes, Tronosky did stay with us for quite some time,” Kimball says. Her eyes find Tucker’s. “Wash is safe with him, Tucker. He saved many of our lives, time and time again, and asked for nothing in return. I don’t believe he has any reason to hurt Wash.”

Tucker still doesn’t entirely buy it, but he merely gives a terse nod.

“None of you cared that he was clearly working for both sides?” Carolina asks with a frown. “Maybe he _didn’t_ hurt any of you, but he _could_ have—he could have been a plant by the Feds, and injected you all with a deadly virus.”

Tucker decides that Carolina has been spending entirely too much times with the Reds. “Thanks, Carolina.”

“Yeah, way to lighten the mood,” Grif mutters, shooting a pointed look at Tucker.

Carolina folds her arms across her chest. “Tucker’s concerns are hardly unwarranted.”

“I thought you said you didn’t think he’d hurt Wash,” Tucker accuses.

“I don’t, I’m just…” she turns back to Kimball. “I want to know what it was about this man that made you all trust him.”

“We didn’t have a _choice_.”

They turn to see Perry approaching, followed by Patil and a handful of Fed soldiers. “He was too good,” Patil adds. “Couldn’t refuse that kind of help.”

Kimball nods. “Exactly. We were losing soldiers left and right—we weren’t exactly in a position to refuse medical aid, especially from someone like him.”

“I still don’t understand what he was doing here in the first place,” Tucker can’t resist adding. “I mean, if this guy was so good, why was he on Chorus? How did he even _get_ here?”

“He was hiding,” Carolina says, surprised. She raises her eyebrows when they all turn to look at her. “I thought that was the obvious part. It’s what I was doing for years before I found you all. Staying under the radar.”

“But it doesn’t sound like he was staying under the radar,” Simmons says. “I mean, staying under the radar would be doing—well, what _you_ were doing. Dr. Tronosky got himself involved in the middle of a civil war and made no secrets about his abilities.”

“So why the good Samaritan act?” Tucker adds. “Why draw all that attention to himself?”

“I think,” Carolina says slowly. “That he probably wanted to make things better. To try to set them right. Make up for what he had done, somehow.”

“Make up for what?” Tucker snaps. “Wiring you guys with crazy A.I.s?”

She levels him with an exasperated glare. “Something like that, yes.”

“I like him,” Britton pipes up. She’s sitting on the ground fiddling with her long blonde hair, attempting to wrest it into a ponytail with one arm. “I don’t think he’s going to hurt Wash.”

Prajapati rolls her eyes. “You don’t think anyone is going to hurt anyone, BB.” She snatches the hair tie out of Britton’s hand and gathers hair back, starting a French braid on the top of her head. “I agree, though. He’ll fix Wash’s head.”

“What…” Britton hesitates, exchanging significant eye contact with Kennedy. “What exactly _happened_ to his head, anyway?”

Prajapati makes a shushing noise, flicking Britton on the back of her head. “ _Ow!_ Oh, _please_ —like you weren’t all thinking it!”

“We are all trying to _lay low_ ,” Prajapati hisses. “Asking nosy questions is not laying low, BB!”

“How about,” Kimball says loudly, “you all focus on helping Wash get better, however he needs—whether that means staying out of the way or behaving when he’s back to training—and not worry about the specifics of his injuries?”

“That reminds me,” Carolina says suddenly, “Va— _Kimball._ His armor. We were unable to retrieve his armor. He’ll need a new set. Do you have something?”

“Of course,” Kimball says. “There’s—”

“ _What?_ ” Jensen blurts. She looks nothing short of horrified. “Agent Washington doesn’t have his armor?”

“Look, it was all we could do to get out of there alive,” Grif says. “We couldn’t exactly stick around to get his armor.”

“Again,” Tucker says, rolling his eyes at the ceiling, “I’d like to point out that you weren’t there—you were flying the fucking plane—”

“The most important job of all,” Britton says reverently, looking at Grif, who immediately puffs up his chest.

“The point is,” Kimball says hastily over Tucker’s loud scoffing noise, “ _the point is,_ we have plenty of extra suits of armor that Agent Washington is welcome to choose from.”

“Scraps,” Jensen says. “We have _scraps_ of armor! You can’t give one of those suits to Agent Washington!”

“Uh, why not?” Grif asks.

“Because they _suck_ ,” Bitters says. He shrugs when Kimball glares at him. “What? They do. Seems kind of shitty for him to go from Freelancer armor to our tin-can suits.”

“Not to mention the color palettes are simply horrid!” Donut exclaims. “The angles are just all wrong—”

“And none of them are blue,” Caboose says sulkily. “Wash’s armor was blue.”

There’s a pause as everyone thinks back. “Agent Washington’s armor was grey,” Palomo says, glancing around. “Wasn’t it?”

“It was blue,” Caboose says staunchly, his voice taking on that fucking stubborn lilt that it always does before a meltdown. “Wash’s armor was _blue_.”

“It _was_ blue under the grey,” Tucker interjects quickly. “He—“

“With yellow pieces,” Caboose reminds him snootily. “With yellow pieces that _I_ painted for him.”

“Yes yes, with yellow pieces,” Tucker adds, rolling his eyes. “Caboose, stop fucking whining. You can paint his armor blue again, what’s the problem?”

“The problem is that Agent Washington deserves better armor than what we’ve got,” Jensen says. She actually looks as if she might cry, and Britton is already there, wiping at her eyes in what she clearly thinks is a subtle manner.

“Jesus Christ,” Grif grumps. “It’s just armor, for—”

He stops speaking as the door swings open, and Dr. Grey emerges, tugging her mask down away from her mouth. She holds up her hands as half the hallway stands. “He’s stable. Questions later. I’m breaking one of my rules and Tucker, I need you to come with me.”

Tucker swallows hard as every eye in the hallway turns to him. “Me?”

“Yes.” She glances back at the door, clearly eager to get back to work, and Tucker narrows his eyes suspiciously.

“Did you leave him alone in there—”

“Sarge is with him,” she says impatiently, already shuffling towards the door once more. “ _We don’t have time for this_ —Tucker. I need your help.”

“Okay,” Tucker says, and he takes a few steps forward. “What do you need me to do?”

“The next part of this surgery requires Agent Washington to be awake,” she says. “We can’t find a way around it. He will be very disoriented when I wake him up, and may start to panic. I need someone to sit with him and talk to him, to help keep him calm.”

“Oh,” Tucker says. “And…and you need _me?_ ”

There’s a series of exasperated huffs and groans from behind him. “You’re his _lover,_ silly,” Britton whispers loudly. “You have to go _sit_ with him!”

“Oh my God,” Kennedy breathes, “it’s just like a movie.”

“It’s science,” Dr. Grey says crisply, and they all stare at her blankly save for Britton, who nods as if this makes perfect sense.

“Wash’s brain settles down when he thinks of Tucker,” Britton explains, and she places a reverent hand over her heart. “That’s why you need him, right? Oh, it’s so romantic…”

“Precisely. Epsilon’s been mapping the surgery, and he says Tucker’s the best chance we’ve got.” Dr. Grey sighs. “Believe me, the last thing I want is to wake him up, but it’s imperative that we determine his lucidity while we fix his implants.”

“Oh,” Tucker says. “Oh, uh. Yeah, of course. Lead the way.”

She leads him through the ICU doors and into a small room. “There’s a pair of fresh scrubs set out on the bench. Take off your armor and your suit, wash your hands thoroughly—three minutes—and make sure all of that hair is in a scrub cap.”

Tucker follows her instructions mechanically and heads into the infirmary. Wash is propped up in some sort of special gurney in what’s almost a sitting position, eyes closed, with Dr. Grey and Dr. Tronosky standing at the head of the gurney.  Sarge is standing at Wash’s side, looking entirely out of place in scrubs, shotgun slung across his back. Tucker locates Epsilon last, standing by Wash’s side, speaking in low tones. His voice sounds a bit listless, but Tucker is enormously relieved to see that he’s pulled it together somewhat.

“Have a seat, Tucker,” Dr. Grey says. “I’m going to wake him up now.”

“Your job is to keep him calm,” Dr. Tronosky says. “It might help if you talk about—”

“I know how to keep Wash calm, asshole,” Tucker snaps. He takes a deep breath and gathers one of Wash’s hands into his own. “Go on. I’m ready.”

* * *

Tucker is growing used to little rooms that feel like nightmares, rooms of bloody needles and hospital beds. He is used to counting his steps through them, to breathing tight and sure, _onetwothree onetwothree._ He will never, _ever_ get used to _this_ , to the way Wash’s face looks when it’s filled with anguish and streaked with tears and sweat, on Tucker’s floor when the nightmares hit, or bound to a gurney where everything is red, or laid out on an operating table with his head split open for the world to see.

The hours stretch on and on and on, and all Tucker wants to do is run—to tear Dr. Grey and Tronosky’s hands away from Wash’s implants, to rip Epsilon out of his head, to grab Wash and go. He thinks Wash wants that too, as his eyes lock firmly onto Tucker’s, as their hands tighten and squeeze around each other’s, as the monitors beep and buzz, as the voices of everyone else drone around them.

But there is no running from this little room, no escape, no window to let the light in. There are only the frantic conversations that blur together as the hours drag; there are only the walls at their backs and the corners boxing them in, as every one of them holds a breath.

_This is our last chance._

No one says it, but they feel it, every one of them.

* * *

“Where am I?”

“Chorus. Armonia. You’re safe, dude.”

“M’head hurts.”

“I know. Dr. Grey and….and…Dr. Grey’s just fixing some stuff, okay?”

“I don’t want to be here.”

“Neither do I.”

* * *

“Wash, this might pinch a bit, alright?”

“Okay—aaarggghhhh, God, that _hurts_ , that hurts!”

“What the fuck! That was a little more than pinch, Grey!”

“ _Tucker_ —”

“Right—sorry—Wash, it’s fine, you’re fine…just ignore the…pinch…”

“Blue Team. Can’t even handle a little bitty brain surgery—”

“Sarge, shut the fuck up and keep that gun on _the Architect_ here—where the fuck did you even get red scrubs, anyway?”

“Good question. Where _did_ you find red scrubs, darling?”

“They’re m’own personal pair!”

“Right…”

* * *

“How much longer is this going to take?”

“Well, goodness me Epsilon, I apologize if we’re boring you!”

“Oh, shut up, that’s not what I meant—look, this isn’t easy holding these fuckers back, alright?”

“Told you. I can do it—”

“Jesus Christ, Wash, _you are on an operating table,_ just let me—”

“Don’t you two start!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Sorry.”

* * *

“Uh oh…”

“What? What does that mean, uh oh?”

“Nothing, nothing—Dr. Grey, come look at this—I think we’re losing him—”

_“Pickles!”_

“I’m sorry! It’s just—look—”

"It looks...those wires look _melted_. What happened to him?"

"Hey asshole, maybe let's discuss that later and not, you know, when his _head is open_ on the fucking table?"

“Right....it's just, was there fire back here?"

"Wow, you're just bound and determined to be a-"

"It will help me with the next step of the surgery-"

"Oh, now don't you two start- it's like my operating room is filled with children! Ollie, come here and hold this clamp, please. Tucker, talk to Wash—”

“Right. Right. Jesus Christ. So—Wash. Did I ever tell you about that time…”

* * *

“No no no! Stay with me—come on, focus on me, just look right here! Tell me—tell me your name.”

“I don’t think I remember…”

“Yes you fucking do, don’t pull that shit on me. Come on. Tell me your name.”

“My name….my name is…is Agent Washington. It’s Wash.”

“That’s fucking right.”

“Friends call me Wash.”

“You’re goddamn right we do. Now what’s mine?”

“Tucker. Lavernius Tucker.”

“Hm. You should call me that more often.”

“And…and his name is…”

“Nope, don’t look at him. Don’t look at anyone else. Don’t worry about it. It’s just you and me here, yeah?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“Okay.”

* * *

Dr. Grey puts Wash back under slowly, and Tucker tries to memorize every speck of blue in those eyes. They grow heavier and heavier until Wash is breathing deep once more and Tucker sits there in silence for the rest of his surgery, holding Wash’s hand. He is grateful that no one tells him to leave, not only because he wouldn’t, but because he couldn’t. His bones feel like jelly, heavy with the knowledge that he may have just seen Wash’s eyes close for the last time.

“We won’t know much more until he wakes up,” Dr. Tronosky says as they close, and Tucker doesn’t even have it in him to snap.

“You got them, though?” he asks Epsilon. “The nanobots. You got them?”

“We got them,” Epsilon says, sounding more exhausted than Tucker’s ever heard. “We got them, but it wasn’t easy. He just has to…put a few things back together.”

Tucker is used to this—to the waiting, to the little rooms that feel like nightmares. He doesn’t bother to change out of his scrubs when they leave the ICU, just plops down in the chair next to Wash’s room in recovery and rests his head on the mattress. He’s getting used to this, too—sleeping beside hospital beds, waking up to Wash’s hand in his hair. Tucker doesn’t look up when Caboose and Carolina enter, or when the Reds follow a few minutes later, just lets Sarge regale them with tales of the surgery, while he holds Wash’s hand, and waits, and waits, and waits.


	34. Chapter 34

His world moves in circles.

For a while, Wash lets himself be swept around in them, twirling, turning, twisting. His head feels like water, as if he is lying on his back in the waves, arms held out to the side.

Images float by overhead and snippets of conversations catch in his ears. The sea of memories is nearly suffocating, pressing heavy on his chest like a physical weight, _sights smells sounds sensations_ crashing together, blurry and overwhelming. Wash drags himself to a sit, _floating, floating, floating_ , as the endless whirl of color whip by. He stares at his palms, upturned in his lap, and directs all his focus to them.

His hands become solid, memories dropping into them like stones. A sugar bowl, cold and solid against his palms. The crunch of teeth, breaking beneath his knuckles. A brown helmet, turned over and over in his hands. Dreaded black hair, sliding soft through his fingers. Sensations, so many of them, trying to slip through his cupped palms like quicksand, but he does not let them escape. He takes each one, boxes it up carefully, and turns to the next one. Methodical. _Careful._

Wash inhales, deep and slow, letting that become his next point of focus. The smell of fresh cut wood from a fallen cherry tree. Strong black coffee with plenty of sugar. Hospital antiseptic, far too familiar. A clear waterfall—

He pauses on the waterfall, expanding the memory beyond just its mossy, clean smell. _A picturesque simulation base, unfamiliar blue armor, the bickering of his new teammates, old, worn-in running shoes that somehow fit just right. He’d laced them up to run outside of his armor for the first time in years, and let his footsteps carry him up to the base’s waterfall._

Wash remembers standing up there for nearly thirty minutes, breathing in that gloriously crisp scent, and staring into the bright and boundless blue water below him. It had taken him some time to realize that the reason his chest felt so heavy was because it was all so _clean_ —the smell, the water, the base itself. He’d felt indescribably dirty standing there, a blight on an otherwise perfect landscape. He did not deserve such a moment of perfect peace, did not deserve the two blue-armored soldiers calling him _teammate_ in the distance, did not deserve this beautiful, clear water.

He’d unlaced his running shoes and jumped into it anyway.

Wash follows the memory down, traces his own descent into the water, and gasps as it hits him, so cold that it knocks the very breath from his lungs. The memory plays on, but Wash keeps falling, through the water, through the blue, until he crashes through—

_My name is Agent Washington. My friends call me Wash._

—and lands on with his feet on a familiar cracked floor, surrounded by rows and rows of cherry shelves, each one holding dozens of memories stacked in careful boxes.

_My name is Wash._

He _breathes_.

Wash begins to walk, hands trailing along the shiny, polished wood, fingertips soaking in the pleasant warmth of his boxes. Dark blue, light blue, green, red, black and orange. His paces carry him past the glass cylinder, cracked down the middle. There is no sign of the nanobots, no thick black cloud swirling through his mind. The air is clean and clear, though a bit tenuous, as if this fragile calm could shatter at any moment. There is still something here that doesn’t belong, setting his teeth on edge, and Wash knows, despite being unable to see him, that Epsilon is lingering in his head.

But he doesn’t want to think about Epsilon. He turns his attention instead to the voice whispering through his mind, familiar in the _best_ ways, and although Wash can’t catch the specific words, he knows their cadence. He wants to hear them, each vowel and consonant, wants to tuck each one away in its own little box, precious and protected.

Wash closes his eyes. He focuses on the whispering words rifling through his hair, lets them pull him forward, away from his boxes, away from the cracked wooden floor, away from Epsilon’s presence in his mind. The words roll around him, and he climbs over their ridges, hauls himself up letter by letter as he hears them form his name, _Wash? WashWash, Wash…_

He opens his eyes in a room full of buzzing, beeps and breathes, as he has done so many times before—

( _—to a little girl with green eyes to two soldiers in purple armor to a little blue A.I. on his chest to the UNSC handcuffing him to countless doctors to red and blue soldiers in the snow—_ )

To a warm hand in his, to fuzzy dreads tickling his arm, and the biggest pair of brown eyes he’s ever seen peering into his own. To—

_To—_

“Tucker?”

Tucker’s face, always so expressive, cracks open in relief, breath leaving his parted lips in a _whoosh,_ body sagging as he places a steadying hand on the mattress before lifting that same hand to Wash’s face, to brush the hair out of his eyes. “Wash?”

There’s a tremble in Tucker’s voice that Wash has never heard before— and he _knows_ that, he can _say_ that for sure because he remembers, he _remembers_ how Tucker says his name when he’s happy or wanting or hurt or scared, but this, _this—_

“ _Wash_ ,” Tucker breathes again, and he leans forward until his forehead is resting against Wash’s, hand sliding down to cup the side of Wash’s face. “You in there?”

“Yeah,” he says, his own voice coming strangled. “M’in here.”

Tucker pulls back to look at him, hands cradling Wash’s head like it’s made of porcelain. “You,” he says, voice reverent, “scared _the living shit out of me._ ”

Wash cracks a slight smile at the pure indignation that creeps into Tucker’s tone. “How long…?”

“How long were you out? Two and a half days.” Tucker sighs. “I should probably go get Dr. Grey.”

Wash shares the reluctance in his tone. It’s _nice_ here, wrapped in this sleepy, hazy bubble, Tucker’s hands on his face and in his hair, anchoring him to consciousness. When Dr. Grey comes back in, she’s going to ask him questions, and eventually, she’s going to ask him what happened, and Wash will have to tell her. He will have to do this, _again_ ; he will have to sit in a chair tell his doctor—

Doc _tors._

Something must change in his face, because Tucker frowns. “What?”

“Doctors,” Wash says, and closes his eyes for a moment to drag a memory to the surface: his old doctor, swaying in the doorway of this very hospital room, eyes blown wide with shock. He opens his own eyes, uncertain, his newfound stable ground suddenly untenable. “I thought I saw my old doctor. From Freelancer.”

“You mean the _Architect_ ,” Tucker says sourly, and Wash remembers something else now: Tucker, hauling the doctor off him and throwing him bodily into the nearest wall. “You did, dude. Good old _Dr. Tronosky_.”

“Tronosky,” Wash repeats slowly. “But why… _how_ is he here?”

“I have no idea,” Tucker says. He pulls back slightly, straightening to glance at the door, and Wash fastens a hand around his wrist before he can think to stop himself.

“Did…” he swallows, hastily letting go of Tucker’s arm. “They got those things out of my head. Right?”

“That’s what Grey said,” Tucker assures him, and he absently lifts Wash’s hand, folding his fingers back around Tucker’s forearm. “Why? Are they still…like, in there?”

“No no,” Wash says quickly. He keeps his hand there this time, thumb running along Tucker’s pulse point. “They’re gone. I just…can’t believe it. I really thought…”

He trails off, Tucker watching him closely. “I really thought I wasn’t going to make it.”

“But you _did_ ,” Tucker says. “You did make it and you’re _here_ now and it’s…it’s gonna be fine.”

The door opens before Wash can answer, although he isn’t sure just what he would’ve said. They both glance up to see Dr. Grey, who falters several feet into the room. “Wash! You’re awake!”

She hurries over to him, medical scanner forgotten for a moment as her fingers fasten automatically around his wrist to check his pulse. Wash cracks another grin at that, and she drops his wrist with a huff upon noticing his expression. “Don’t you give me that look, Agent Washington.” Her gaze flicks to Tucker. “Tucker. You were supposed to fetch me the moment my patient opened his eyes.”

“I was _going_ to!” Tucker protests. “He just opened his eyes like two seconds ago!”

“Hmm,” Dr. Grey says, but she lets it drop, turning on her medical scanner. “Well, I suppose I’ll just have to take your word for it. Wash, how are you—”

He knows that neither of them miss the way he flinches, hard, when Dr. Grey steps out of his vision to run the scanner over his head, knows Tucker does not miss the way Wash’s fingers dig into his wrist. Dr. Grey’s voice falters for only a moment, and she remains in Wash’s vision as she lifts the scanner more slowly this time. “How are you feeling?”

“Uh—okay, I guess,” he says. He forces his hand to unclench from Tucker’s arm. “I know my name, and that I’m on Chorus, and that I just had surgery—”

“Are all your memories still there?” Tucker blurts. He winces when Dr. Grey slants him a furious look that Wash probably wasn’t meant to see. “Sorry—I just—”

“It’s fine,” Wash says, because the last thing he wants, _the absolute last thing,_ is for Tucker or anyone else to start walking on eggshells around him. “I…lost a few things, I think, but I don’t know what.”

“That will come in time,” Dr. Grey says calmly. She clicks the scanner off and comes to stand in front of him. “Wash, the fact that you are this lucid, and were able to fight the nanobots for as long as you did…I hope you know what that says about your mental strength.”

He’s shaking his head before she finishes her words. “It wasn’t me,” he says. “I would’ve…if it weren’t for you…” he meets her eyes. “Emily, thank you.”

She turns away with a little huff, but not before Wash sees the way her eyes are glistening. “Well, you’re welcome, silly. I will admit, it wasn’t all _my_ genius. We had quite the team in there. Tucker did a remarkable job not falling into his usual hysterics—”

“Hey!”

“And the doctor—well—and Sarge, he provided some much needed assistance. Epsilon did his part as well. Where’s that pesky A.I., anyway?”

Epsilon logs on so suddenly that it leaves Wash reeling slightly. “Right here. What do we need?”

His head jerks back in surprise when Dr. Grey turns back to them and holds her palm out. After a moment, Epsilon steps into it. “Thank you,” she says formally. “The theatrics were rather unnecessary, but it was quite helpful to have a set of eyes on the inside.”

“Uh,” Epsilon says, sounding vaguely stunned for only a moment. “Uh. Sure. I mean. It was pretty easy stuff.”

His voice slips back into its normal nonchalance. Wash can feel it, though, before he masks it: his unfiltered shock at being deemed useful in such a context.

Wash clears his throat before he can lose his nerve. “Thank you,” he says stiffly, and Epsilon whips around to look at him. “Thank you for…helping. To save it. My life.”

Epsilon isn’t as quick to mask his shock this time, and his, “Yeah, sure,” is far more stunted than it was to Dr. Grey. “I mean, I did kind of—”

_Owe you—_

“—you should really thank Tucker. And Caboose. I, uh. Don’t think if I could’ve done it if it weren’t for them making fucking puppy dog eyes at me. And Grey yelling her head off. So.”

Wash looks at Tucker, who is, for some reason, looking at him apprehensively. “Thanks.”

“Oh. Uh. Yeah…” Tucker gives himself a shake. “Okay, so if we’re all done thanking each other awkwardly now…”

“I certainly hope so,” Dr. Grey sniffs, then tilts her head at Wash. When she feels his gaze on her. “Yes?”

“Tronosky.”

Dr. Grey and Epsilon freeze at the same moment, so in sync that it’s nearly comical. “You…remember that,” Dr. Grey says, recovering her composure.

Wash nods. “How did he _get_ here?”

Dr. Grey regards him carefully. “Would you like to see him?”

“Yes.”

Tucker and Epsilon make joint noises of despair, and Dr. Grey whirls on them. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, you two! He did just help me save Wash’s _life,_ you know.”

“Still,” Tucker grunts, while Epsilon shakes his head vigorously.

“Yeah uh…that's pretty much the _last_ person I wanna fucking see right now. Or, you know, _ever_. I’m gonna need to not be here for that happy reunion. Is Carolina around?”

He says it so casually that Wash doesn’t almost catch the implication. “Oh,” he says quickly, once Epsilon’s words register. “Yeah. Right. You should go. There’s no reason for him to still be in my head, right?”

“None at all,” Dr. Grey says lightly. “Shall I call in Agent Carolina?”

Epsilon doesn’t say a word, doesn’t allow a single errant thought to drift across Wash’s mind. Letting Wash make the decision, that is no decision at all. “Yes,” he says. “Page her, please. Tronosky, too.”

Dr. Grey rolls her eyes a little. “I don’t need to page her, silly. She’s right outside the door. So is Alexander. I’ll be right back.”

She exits quickly, leaving Tucker fidgeting, one hand cupped over the back of his neck. “So should I like, give you two a moment, or…”

“No,” Wash and Epsilon say in unison, and the three of them sit there in awkward silence until Carolina is pushing her way through the infirmary doors a moment later.

She does not falter, but walks to the other side of Wash’s bed and takes off her helmet, resting it on his mattress. “You called?”

He just nods a little. “You came.”

He knows that she catches the underlying meaning in his words, particularly when Tucker rolls his eyes and mutters. “ _Sooo_ dramatic.”

“So…” Wash gestures towards Epsilon. “I thought it was time that…you know.”

Carolina regards him carefully for a moment before nodding, gaze shifting to the A.I. “Epsilon?”

“Right. Yeah.” Epsilon turns back to Wash, raising his hand awkwardly. “Well. Bye, I guess.”

“Bye,” Wash says automatically.

Epsilon pulls from his mind slowly, carefully; he untangles himself bit by bit until there is only a whisper left. He hesitates for a moment, nothing more than a single tendril wrapped around Wash’s thoughts, before he’s gone, leaving Wash’s mind light, and open, and _his_. It’s so deliberately gentle, the way he leaves, nothing at all like the breathtaking pain of having Epsilon ripped from his implants all those years ago, although this time leaves his chest aching slightly with things left unsaid.

 _Perhaps,_ he thinks for the first time, _perhaps it’s better that way, after all._

The door opens at that exact moment, and they all turn to see Dr. Tronosky hesitating in the doorway. Epsilon vanishes at once, and Carolina sighs, looking at Wash. “I should go. I’ll come back later?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Thanks, boss.”

Carolina slips out behind Dr. Tronosky, who is still in the doorway. “Well, don’t just _stand_ there, Alexander,” Dr. Grey says with a tut. “Come here and look at these scans, and then I’ll leave you two be.”

Tucker pushes himself to a stand, not even trying to hide the fact that he’s placing himself between Wash and Dr. Tronosky. He glares at Tronosky the entire time Dr. Grey flips through the results on her medical scanner, one hand shoved into the pocket of his fatigues where Wash can clearly see the outline of his sword. “Tucker,” he mutters, tugging at Tucker’s arm, but Tucker is as still as a statue, the tension clear in every line of his body.

“All in all,” Dr. Grey says brightly, switching off the scanner, “he’s doing quite well physically. I’ll leave you two alone for a moment, and then I really must insist that Wash rest.”

She flounces over to the door, pausing to look back only when she notices that Tucker isn’t following her. “Yeahhh,” Tucker says slowly. “Yeah, I gotta say, it’s pretty fucking hilarious that you think I’m leaving Wash alone in here with Dr. Frankenstein.”

Wash winces as Dr. Grey swells, arms folding across her chest as she eyes Tucker dangerously. “Lavernius _Tucker_ —”

“It’s fine, Emily,” Dr. Tronosky says, sounding as if he’s biting back a laugh. “I don’t mind if Tucker stays. That is, of course, if Wash doesn’t.”

Wash sighs, looking side-long at Tucker. “Tucker…”

Tucker’s stance is tense and angry, the hand not gripping his sword resting protectively on Wash’s shoulder. His eyes are laser focused on Dr. Tronosky, but they flick to Wash the moment he says his name and Wash’s words— “ _It’s fine, you can go,”_ – die on his tongue. For the briefest of moments, Tucker’s anger and bravado fall away, and Wash can see a bone-deep terror. The look in Tucker’s eyes nearly knocks the wind from him, and Wash thinks he sees some of what Tucker went through over the past three weeks.

He tries to think of how he’d feel if one of his own had been taken and _hurt_ , far beyond his reach, and knows that he wouldn’t want them out of his sight for a second. “Okay,” he says instead. “You can stay.”

Tucker’s face crumples in relief for only a second before he snaps his gaze back to Dr. Tronosky. His hand falls from Wash’s shoulder, and he steps back a few feet, hand still on his sword, but giving them a bit of space. Over his shoulder, Dr. Grey rolls her eyes and exits the infirmary with a muttered, _“Honestly.”_

The door shuts and Wash locks eyes with Dr. Tronosky. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Dr. Tronosky says.

For a moment, they simply look at each other, eyes roving over each other’s faces. Dr. Tronosky’s dark black hair is speckled with grey now, and there is a new scar down his right temple, but the glasses are the same, and he even has the exact same lab coat he wore in recovery.

“Thank you,” Wash blurts, at the same time that Dr. Tronosky says, “I’m sorry.”

The both jerk back slightly, blinking. Dr. Tronosky recovers first. “You don’t need to thank me, Wash.”

“Of course I do,” Wash says, surprised. “You saved my life.”

“I destroyed your life.” There is no waver in Dr. Tronosky’s voice, no break in his gaze, only a slight slump of his shoulders to indicate how heavy his words weight. “You should have never been in a position for someone to hurt you using your implants. That’s on me, and I…can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

“Uh, could we maybe save the soul-searching conversations until Wash has been out of brain surgery for more than five seconds?” Tucker snaps. “I mean, for fuck’s _sake._ ”

“It’s fine,” Wash says, patting his arm somewhat automatically, before turning back to Dr. Tronosky. “I don’t…blame you for what happened.”

“You should.”

“Jesus,” Tucker grumps, “how long have you been practicing this speech, anyway?”

“For quite some time,” Dr. Tronosky says, as if it’s a serious question, and Tucker rolls his eyes. “but I never thought I’d have the opportunity to say these words. I...don’t know if you know, Wash, but they leveled the hospital that you were in during Recovery.”

Wash nods. “I thought you were dead, too. I thought….”

_“Wait, wait, DON’T--!”_

_Wash screams. The Counselor pulls the trigger and the man falls and Wash screams, howls, fights against his restraints with everything he has. He screams as they drag the bodies out, as they haphazardly wipe up the blood and the brains and the pieces of skull. He screams until he is alone in the room, alone with his thoughts, alone, alone_ alone.

Tucker and Dr. Tronosky both glance at his monitors in alarm, and Wash follows their gaze to see that his heart rate is spiking. He puts a hand on his chest, forces himself to breathe, and refocuses on Dr. Tronosky. “Samira and Jackson. Do you remember them?”

“Of course,” Dr. Tronosky says, bewildered. “But why—”

“Are they okay? Have you been in contact with them? _Are they okay?_ ”

“Wash,” Tucker says in alarm. He puts a hand on Wash’s shoulder and presses him back against the pillows—Wash hadn’t even realized he’d been leaning forward—and brushes Wash’s hair out of his eyes again. “C’mon, you need to calm down.”

“Right,” Wash mutters. He breathes deep, trying to force his expression into something politely neutral and robustly sane. He looks back at Dr. Tronosky, who is staring at Tucker’s hand in Wash’s hair with the strangest look on his face. “Just. Are you in touch?”

Dr. Tronosky jolts a little. “No. Unfortunately, I’m not. I might be able to send a few messages out, though, if it’s important to you.” He regards Wash carefully. “Any particular reason you ask?”

Wash hesitates for far too long, and in the end, he cannot answer, just shakes his head mutely. “Okay,” Tucker says nervously. “Okay, I really think you should just try to take a nap or something—”

“I agree.” Dr. Tronosky hesitates, then reaches a hand out to Wash. “I am…very glad to see you alive, and surrounded by people who…well. By people.”

“Me too,” Wash says, and as he clasps Dr. Tronosky’s hand to shake it, Tucker groans.

“Oh my _God_ , would you stop it with the drama? You two are like, kindred fucking spirits…”

* * *

Wash wakes up the next morning to something feather light landing on his legs, and the sound of an armored body throwing itself into the chair by his bed. He opens his eyes as the chair creeks ominously, and blinks over at Grif, who is removing his helmet and tossing his hair out of his eyes. “You’re welcome,” he says by way of greeting.

Wash frowns, waiting for an explanation, but Grif merely rips the wrapper off of a chocolate bar and stuffs half the thing in his mouth. When Wash continues to stare, Grif rolls his eyes, propping his boots up on Wash’s bed and gesturing towards Wash’s legs, which are covered with—

Chocolate bars. Not just two or three, but at least _twenty_ chocolate bars. While Wash gapes, Grif thrusts a pudding cup into his hand. “Eat that and don’t be fucking weird about it, alright? I figure you probably haven’t had sugar in like, a month, and that’s just a _crime,_ so I’m sharing my stash with you.”

“Is this…” Wash takes the pudding cup from Grif’s hands. “Is this real chocolate?”

“Of _course_ it’s real chocolate, dumbass.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Supply run.”

Wash throws up his hand, and Grif squeaks as he almost sends the pudding cup flying. “Is there anything you guys don’t get on supply runs?!”

Grif makes a noise that Wash figures is supposed to be a ‘no,’ but seeing as how his mouth is full of chocolate, it’s hard to tell. Wash dips his spoon into the chocolate and sigh when the sweetness hits his tongue. “Thanks, Grif.”

“I said not to be weird,” Grif snaps.

“I was saying thank you!”

“Yeah, _weirdly!_ Like. _Dramatically._ ”

“But—”

“Shhhhhhh. Chocolate. _Food_. Eat.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence, and Wash notices for the first time that Tucker is sprawled out on an adjacent bed, fast asleep. “He spent the night?”

Grif gives him a look. “Dude, are you kidding? He hasn’t slept in his own bed since you’ve been gone.”

Wash freezes, spoon halfway to his mouth. “He hasn’t?”

“Uh…” Grif lowers the chocolate bar. “Whoops. Probably shouldn’t have said that.”

“Then where has he been sleeping?”

Grif shrugs. “Where _hasn’t_ he been sleeping? The hospital…my floor… _Donut’s_ floor…mostly Donut’s floor, really.”

“But why?”

“Wash,” Grif says, his voice pained, “I did not come here to discuss your pining _lover_. I came here to eat chocolate and get away from Simmons’ constant fawning over the Architect. _And_ Sarge’s constant fawning over the Architect. _And_ the Architect _himself._ And _everyone._ Now please. Stop asking uncomfortable questions and eat chocolate with me.”

Grif stares him down until Wash dutifully takes another bite of pudding, and the comfortable silence resumes. A rush of affection for Grif sweeps over him, but he says nothing, just enjoys the sounds of Tucker’s rhythmic breathing in the background and the crinkling of the candy bar wrappers. Wash has just started on his second chocolate bar when the door swings open, and Caboose bounds into the room, Simmons trailing behind him.

Grif groans a little, but the sound is cut off when Tucker wakes with a gasp. He rolls to his feet, snagging his sword off the bedside table and igniting it, all in one fluid motion. His movements are so quick and sure that Wash would be positively bursting with pride if it weren’t for the wild, terrified look on his face, as he scans the room, eyes locking onto their faces one by one.

There’s a moment of tense silence, before he powers off his sword, dropping it hastily back onto the table and forcing a smile onto his face. “Jesus, Caboose, could you be any louder?”

The noise and movement in the room resumes, but Wash tracks Tucker’s movements as Caboose wanders over to his bed. Tucker is turned away from him, running a trembling hand through his dreads, but when he catches Wash staring he offers a shaky smile. Wash frowns a little, but is immediately distracted as Grif makes a noise of despair.

“ _Chocolate!_ ” Caboose cries in delight, making in a beeline for one of the candy bars.

“Nu- _uh!_ ” Grif drapes himself across Wash’s legs, covering the candy bars protectively. “No way, these are _mine._ Mine and Wash’s. I already gave you one, Caboose!”

“But I _aaate_ that one already.”

“What else were you gonna do with it?!”

Wash rolls his eyes, wresting a chocolate bar from where it’s trapped under Grif’s elbow. “Grif, it’s _fine,_ he can have one of mine…”

He frees the candy bar and hands it to Caboose, who beams at him as if Wash just single-handedly won the war. “Oh-oh, Wash, that is so nice of you, to give me one of your chocolate bars!”

“One of _my_ chocolate bars,” Grif sulks, but he flops back in his chair. Moments later, he’s sitting back up straight as Sarge and Donut enter the room as well. “Oh my God, get _out!_ All of you!”

“Agent Freckles!” Sarge booms. He snags a chair on his way over and drags it across the room, parking it by Wash’s bedside. “Finally, you’re awake! I’ve been rehearsing the story of your daring rescue and I think I’ve finally got it in tip top shape!”

“Jesus Christ,” Grif says to the ceiling.

“Can it, Grif,” Sarge snaps. “Not as if you would know _anyway,_ seeing as you were flying the plane—”

“Okay, why does everyone keep saying that?! If I hadn’t flown the plane, none of you would have ever gotten out of there!”

“Hogwash,” Sarge says airily. “We’d have found a way—”

“ _No you would not have!_ ”

“Anyway…” Sarge clears his throat, sitting up importantly in his chair as Caboose takes a seat on Wash’s bed, watching Sarge politely. “Our story begins with the one and only Doctor Emily Grey, the fair lady I am lucky enough to call my lover—”

“Oh God,” Tucker mutters, throwing himself back down onto his hospital bed and throwing an arm over his eyes. “Please, someone put me out of my misery.”

“Now, you may not know this, Frecklancer, but the good doctor is the one who came up with that plane to rescue you!”

Wash blinks. “She did?”

“Sure did!” Sarge says proudly. “It was a plan of pure ingenuity, conceived in our utmost time of need—”

“Subway system,” Grif says flatly. “We used the subway system.”

“Grif!” Sarge howls. “Get out! You’re ruining m’story!”

Things degenerate quickly after that. Grif and Simmons’ eventual argument over whether or not it’s truly a secret mission if someone back on base knows about it brings Dr. Grey storming into the room. She kicks them out and they leave sulkily, one by one, Grif leaving a generous five candy bars behind. When Tucker lingers behind, Wash nudges at his arm. “Go on. It’s lunchtime.”

“I’m not hungry,” Tucker says quickly. “It’s cool, I’ll just eat in here.”

Wash sighs. “Tucker.”

“What?” Tucker mumbles.

“Tucker, you know I’m okay, right?”

“Are you?”

The light-hearted atmosphere from earlier vanishes at once, and although Dr. Grey doesn’t look up, she pauses ever so briefly in her note-taking. “Yes. I am.”

Tucker picks at a stray thread in Wash’s hospital sheets. “Okay, ‘cause I know those things are out of your head, but you still went through a lot of fucked up shit that I know you’re gonna try to pretend didn’t happen—”

“I’m not trying to pretend anything didn’t happen!” Wash protests. “I—”

“Promise?”

“I…” Wash looks at him. “Yes. I promise. I just…”

_If they get anything back at all it’ll be a pile of matchsticks when I ask you a question I want you to answer it it must be difficult for a soldier of your caliber to be rendered so helpless for so long it appears that I do know you quite well after all a shame really I have such a thing for blonds—_

“I can’t,” Wash chokes out. The mere thought of the look on Tucker’s face if Wash told him what happened, told him _any_ of it, has him looking away. “I just…can’t, yet.”

“Tucker,” Dr. Grey says softly. “Why don’t you go get a bite to eat? Wash will still be here when you’re done.”

Tucker looks at her sharply for a moment before glancing back down at Wash. “Yeah…okay. Okay, I’ll do that.”

He leans in as if he’s going to kiss Wash, but pulls himself up short, grabbing Wash’s hand and pressing it to his mouth instead. “I’ll be back. Okay?”

“I know,” Wash says. “I know you will. Go get some food, I’m fine.”

Tucker hesitates for a moment more before leaving, pulling the door shut quietly behind him.

Wash waits until Tucker’s footsteps disappear before he lets out a shaky breath. He squeezes his eyes shut, hands fisting in his hair as he leans forward, elbow to knees, and _breathes._ Nearly a minute passes, where he breathes and shakes, breathes and shakes, before Dr. Grey places a hand on his shoulder. “Wash.”

“I’m okay,” he gasps. “I’m okay, I swear,  I just…”

His face feels hot and he can’t look at her, just keeps breathing into his hands while she simply stands there, her palm a solid, warm weight on his back. “That’s right,” she says softly. “Just keep breathing, Wash. Can you count for me?”

“Don’t want to,” he wheezes. “Don’t…want…”

“I know.”

He doesn’t. He doesn’t _want_ to count because he’s fine, fine, _fine_ , just like he told Tucker. If he counts he will be wrong, he will be admitting that’s he’s not fine, not, not, not…

“One.”

“Good.” Dr. Grey squeezes his shoulder, a quick, reassuring pressure. “Keep going. Two.”

He gives her two. He gives her two, and three, and all the way up until ten, until he is breathing steady into his palms once more. When he glances up, squinting against the lights that suddenly seem so bright, it is to see Dr. Grey sitting on the edge of his bed, waiting patiently, as if she could sit there forever until he was ready. “Do you want to talk about this?”

 _This._ It is such a wild understatement that it’s somehow perfect, and yet Wash doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to begin, or if he should, or if it even matters. His stomach swoops sickeningly at the thought of having to tell her, tell Tucker, tell _anyone_ , about the breathing tube down his throat, about Felix’s teeth on his neck, about the brains of the nurses they killed, splattered on his floor. It’s too much. It’s too big, the enormity of it, of having someone in his mind, manipulating, playing, as if his brain didn’t even belong to him. He doesn’t know what to say. _He doesn’t know what to say,_ and still Dr. Grey sits there, waiting for Wash’s answer, patient and unassuming, as if she could wait forever if he needed her to.

Wash thinks she just might.

“I woke up in the snow.”

The words rip from him, painful and sharp on the way out, as if each one is made from glass, and Wash says it again, _revels_ in the way they tear at his throat. “I woke up in the snow. They made me think that they left me there, and I was—I was—that’s how I woke up. In the snow.”

Dr. Grey doesn’t comment on the absurdity of the statement, does not tell him that it wasn’t snowing when he was taken and that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. “Were you cold?” she asks instead.

He was. He _was_ cold, because it had felt so real, all of it, and it is _still there_ in his head. The thought of talking about it is unthinkable.

The thought of keeping it inside of himself is _unbearable._

Wash looks at Dr. Grey. Looks at her bouncy curls, and bright brown eyes, at two of the only hands on Earth he would trust inside his brain. Looks at his friend. At his _doctor._

_Wash, it sounds to me as if you were psychologically abused._

“I was _so cold_.”

He looks at her, and he tells her his story.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man you guys, WE ARE ACTUALLY GETTING THERE! i cannot thank you enough for all of the support and love.
> 
> speaking of love, we haven't done a fanart roll call in a while SO LET'S DO THAT, PLS GIVE THESE ARTISTS SOME APPRECIATION:
> 
> >>> [Tucker running for Wash](http://hezart.tumblr.com/post/151077496254/1-of-33-hecking-pictures-im-drawing-in-response) by [heza](http://hezart.tumblr.com)  
> >>> [Sad Caboose :(](http://a-taller-tale.tumblr.com/post/151448979442/i-know-what-torture-is-tucker-sad-caboose) by [taller](http://a-taller-tale.tumblr.com)  
> >>> [Speculation](http://papanorth.tumblr.com/post/151487131651/coming-up-on-put-my-guns-in-the-ground) by [papanorth](http://papanorth.tumblr.com)  
> >>> [Tucker and Donut](http://gaveremy.tumblr.com/post/152324947878/you-arent-the-only-one-whose-lover-is-gone-it) by [courtney](http://gaveremy.tumblr.com)  
> >>> [Tucker finding Wash](http://derpyasian.tumblr.com/post/152672184386/he-cant-manage-another-word-its-the-only-one) by [derpyasian](http://derpyasian.tumblr.com)  
> >>> [Wash & Connie in his memory](http://themightylorax.tumblr.com/post/153751752001/pmgitg-chapter-30-so-i-am-not-good-at-art-i) by [themightylorax](http://themightylorax.tumblr.com)
> 
> thank you guys so so much, i never imagined when i started writing for this fandom that i would have so many talented and skilled artists wanting to draw something for my fic. THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU <3


	35. Chapter 35

There was a time, not so very long ago, when Tucker was only able to sleep under very specific conditions.

Naked.

In a bed.

Flat on his back.

One arm tucked under a pillow.

The room as dark as he could possibly get it.

The simple nature of being in the military had forced him to learn how to sleep during other circumstances (wearing full armor, with a gun clutched to his chest, in the blazing desert heat) but he had never _liked_ it. He was never _good_ at it, was always cranky and light-headed the next day. No matter how long the less-than-ideal situation dragged on, he never felt properly rested until he’d gotten a good night’s sleep in whatever the fuck passed for his own _bed_ these days.

He'd always been able to adjust easily to sharing a bed with whomever he was dating or sleeping with, and Wash was no different— _was,_ in fact, one of the best sleeping partners Tucker has ever had. Wash didn’t mind if Tucker draped all over his chest, or if Tucker’s hair fell across his face, or if Tucker snored a little; Wash loved all these things—the weight, the texture, the noise. It had been the most natural thing in the world to adjust to sharing a bed, and although the learning curve was steeper for Wash, and they’d had plenty of bad nights, Wash had been relaxing into their routine, a little more each night.

And so, Tucker’s very specific conditions had shifted to sleeping on his stomach, sprawled out across Wash’s chest. From rooms as dark as he could get them, to the blinds cracked in to let in some starlight. From sleeping with only a thin sheet, to curling up in an all-encompassing warmth that Tucker couldn’t bear to pull away from no matter how cold he liked to sleep.

How quickly things changed.

Over the course of the last month, Tucker had become an expert at sleeping in any and all conditions. On the floor of Donut’s room. In full armor in the landing bay. In the mess hall. Propped up in a visitor’s chair with his head on Wash’s hospital bed. His sleep wasn’t restful, but his body took what it could get, stealing a few hours here and there. The thought of sleeping warm and comfortable in his bed, while Wash was more than likely cold and hurt—

_—strapped to a bed with his head cracked open, horrible monstrous things forced into his beautiful brain—_

Unthinkable, to be warm while Wash was cold. Impossible, to be safe while Wash was in danger.

_Unbearable._

“Tucker? Did you hear me?”

Tucker startles, then tries to compose himself under Dr. Grey’s suspicious gaze. “I’m…ah, fuck me, no. I didn’t. Sorry, I’m—just tired.”

It’s not a lie, but Tucker still berates himself silently for the slip. He had to pull it together, or Dr. Grey was going to see that he was a walking disaster and make good on her threat to restrict his contact with Wash. “Sorry,” he adds again. “What were you saying?”

“I was just saying that Wash can leave today.”

“Leave…where?”

The suspicious look is back on Dr. Grey’s face. “Why, leave the infirmary, of course!”

“Right,” Tucker says quickly.  “Okay but, don’t you think it’s a little soon?”

The words are out before Tucker can think to filter them, and Wash glares at him out of the corner of his eye, _obviously._ Because not only did Wash hate hospitals to _begin_ with, he had just spent the past month being forced to live in some sort of horror-movie version of one. Now Tucker was suggesting that he should stay in _this_ one for even longer. _Christ,_ he sure was making a play for partner of the year.

“I just meant…sorry,” Tucker mumbles, and some of the ice in Wash’s expression melts.

“I’m okay,” he reminds Tucker, for what must be the thousandth time. Tucker restrains himself from flipping over the nearest cart of medicinal supplies only with supreme effort of will, resists to the urge to scream that Wash cannot _possibly_ be fine, shoves down the burning desire to throw himself on Wash and vow hysterically that Tucker will never let anyone hurt him _ever_ again.

“Right,” he says again instead, and glances at Dr. Grey. “So— _medically,_ he’s fine? You’ve fixed his implants and shit? For _real?_ ”

“We have,” Dr. Grey says simply. She eyes Wash. “Now, he knows that he is not to even _think_ about putting on a suit of armor or picking up a weapon, but—he’s cleared for physical therapy, and should resume eating at regular intervals. Staying in this hospital bed is no longer necessary, nor beneficial.”

“Okay,” Tucker says slowly. “So…so we just… _go?_ ”

“You just go,” Dr. Grey says cheerfully. “Wash…”

She holds out a hand, and Wash pushes himself out of his chair and shakes it, then pulls her into a hug. Tucker watches Dr. Grey’s eyes go wide with surprise before fluttering closed, her arms coming up around Wash to hug him back just as tightly. Tucker steps awkwardly to the side, feeling like an intruder, a feeling that in no way lessens when Wash pulls away and says, “ _Thank you_.”

“Oh, go on,” Dr. Grey says, her eyes a little brighter than normal. “Ten o’clock in the morning tomorrow, my office. Got it?”

“Got it,” Wash says, and he turns to Tucker. “Ready?”

Tucker pushes open the door. “We should, uh. Go to you room? Get your shit settled?”

Wash nods, and they begin to walk. “So,” Tucker says, in the most casual voice he can manage, “why do you have to go to Grey’s in the morning?”

If he didn’t know Wash so well, Tucker would have missed the slight stiffening in his shoulders. “We’re just going to discuss a few things,” Wash says, his voice equally as casual.

“Oh. Gotcha. That’s cool.”

 _Drop it,_ Tucker tells himself sternly. _If he wanted to tell you he fucking would._

After nearly a minute of internal debate in which Tucker finds himself utterly _incapable_ of dropping it, he eyes Wash. “So—you’re _talking_ to her, then.”

“Hmm?”

“To Grey. You’re talking to her about…about what _happened_.”

The tension grows in Wash’s body, but his voice is still light and inconsequential. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

“Oh,” is all Tucker can manage before clearing his throat. “That’s, uh. That’s good. That’s great.”

“Yeah,” Wash says, and they resume their silence, Tucker waring fiercely with the sudden jealousy that’s sprung up in him.

 _Of course he’s fucking talking to her,_ he snaps at himself. _She’s his doctor. She fixed his head and saved all of your asses while you were whining like a bitch. If he wants to talk to you he will._

It wouldn’t be so bad if the tension in the air wasn’t so thick that Tucker could practically _see_ it; if Wash didn’t look as if he were two steps away from bolting. The silence between them is tense in a way that Tucker had almost forgotten entirely, tense in a way that makes him think of Sidewinder and yellow spray paint and the two of them glaring in opposite directions while a coffee pot gurgled between them. There’s so much more than a coffee pot between them now, and the anxious knot in Tucker’s stomach tightens.

“Stop _looking_ at me like that.”

It’s a few more steps before Tucker realizes that Wash has stopped walking and is glaring at him with his arms folded tightly across his chest. Tucker stops as well, staring at him. “Looking at you like _what?_ ”

Wash clenches his jaw, eyes darting away. “Like…like I’m a bomb about to go off.”

“I’m not!” Tucker exclaims. “Wash, I’m _not._ ”

“Okay. Good. Because I’m _fine_.”

Tucker closes his eyes for a brief moment and counts to five. “Okay, Wash. Whatever you say.”

“I don’t _need_ you to…” Wash waves a hand between them, in a space that feels miles wide. “I don’t need you to do this.”

“Do _what?_ ”

“ _This._ Follow me. Watch me.”

“Wash,” Tucker says, with all the calm he can muster. “I’m just walking you to your room. That’s it. That’s all I’m doing.”

Wash stares at him suspiciously for a moment before nodding tersely and continuing the way forward. It takes nearly fifteen minutes for them to reach the doorway to Wash’s room when it should only take five. First they run into a group of Feds, each of whom seems to regard it as a personal duty to wring Wash’s hand. Two minutes after that, three cadets run up to them. Tucker can tell that they are restraining themselves from sobbing all over Wash with supreme difficultly, but to their credit, they don’t. They’re almost at Wash’s room when Caboose melts out of the doorway of his own room with a joyful cry of, “Wash!”

Wash, who fucking _always_ has a smile for Caboose, doesn’t disappoint now even if it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hi, Caboose.”

Caboose bounds forward and is literally in the process of lifting his arms to wrap Wash in a hug when he freezes, body going rigid and still like a statue. It would be comical if it weren’t for the way his face falls in sudden devastation, and after a moment his arms fall limply to the side.

“Agent Washington,” Caboose says, in this weird, formal tone as he _snaps into a salute,_ nearly smacks off the wall in his haste to change directions, and then takes off down the hallway at full speed.

Tucker winces a little at the crestfallen expression on Wash’s face. “Oh no,” Wash sighs, biting his lip. He turns to Tucker. “Do you…do you think he’s still upset? About…”

“What, about almost killing you?” Tucker raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, Wash. I think he’s still upset.”

The words leave Tucker’s mouth before he can even think to censor them, but even as he silently berates himself for sounding like the world’s biggest asshole, Wash just sighs and pushes open the door to his room. “I should talk to him,” he says absently. “Make sure he knows everything’s okay.”

_Everything’s okay, I’m fine, don’t worry about me._

Tucker is fairly certain if he hears one more variation of that phrase from Wash, he’s going to scream. He manages to hold it in this time, and the two of them stand there in the doorway of Wash’s room, gazing inward.

The room is untouched, a fine layer of dust on the wooden crate and metal locker, bedsheets perfectly tucked in at the corners. Tucker’s eyes lock onto Wash’s bed, tugged around so that it’s facing the window, and he remembers how he’d thought about that bed and berated himself for never asking Wash about it. “Why did you do that?” he blurts now, overwhelmed with a desire to know, _now._ “Move your bed, I mean. Why’d you drag it to face the window?”

To his surprise, the corners of Wash’s mouth curve up into a small smile. “Oh—that’s how I slept on the ship. In Freelancer. It started because…well. Maine—we were roommates, I can’t remember if I ever told you that?”

There’s the slightest underlying note of alarm in Wash’s voice, and Tucker rushes to reassure him. “No no—you never told me.”

“Right,” Wash says. He makes his way into his room and sits on the edge of the bed, looking out the window. “Maine hated sleeping in the dark, so we always kept the blinds open. Well…I got tired of craning my neck around to look out the window, so I turned my bed. You get some pretty cool views of the galaxy when you live on a spaceship.”

“Totally,” Tucker says with a grin. “So it’s just a habit?”

Wash pauses for a second too long, and when he meets Tucker’s eyes again, it’s with a somewhat defiant tilt to his chin. “Alpha hated the dark, too.”

He did. Tucker remembers how grateful he was that they never shared a room back at Blue Base, because Church would _constantly_ sleep with the fucking lights on. It takes Tucker a moment to understand what that has to do with Wash, before he remembers that _of course it does_ , because Wash probably knows Alpha’s sleeping habits better than anyone. “Oh,” is all Tucker can manage.

“It helps me…remember.” Wash gestures at the window. “When I wake up and there’s some light—some _natural_ light—it’s something to focus on.”

Tucker wonders, despite trying his very hardest not to, if Felix and Locus had kept him in the dark. “We can switch the bed in my room, too,” he blurts instead.

It’s a moment before Wash will meet his eyes. “Tucker…you don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” Tucker says earnestly. “Fuck, I don’t give a shit which way my bed faces, if you like to look outside then that’s cool—”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Dread pools in the pit of Tucker’s stomach once more, gathers heavy in his throat, but he speaks around it anyway. “What _did_ you mean?”

“I meant…” Wash sighs. “Tucker, you don’t have to take care of me.”

The dread vanishes at once, replaced by a hurt so deep Tucker feels it in his bones. It kicks the wind right out of him, and when he speaks his words come a little breathless.  “Wash, I _know_ that. I know I don’t _have_ to.”

“Okay,” Wash says. “Because I’m—”

“ _Fine,_ ” Tucker grits out. “Yeah. You’re fine. I know.”

An uncomfortable silence settles between them, the ease of their brief conversation about the window gone. “You should go.”

“I…do you _want_ me to go?”

“I have a lot to do today,” Wash says eventually.

“Like what?” Tucker challenges. “What the fuck could you _possibly_ have to do?”

“Well,” Wash says calmly, “I have to go to the armory to get fitted for new armor—”

“Dr. Grey said you shouldn’t be wearing armor,” Tucker accuses at once. “She said you shouldn’t even fucking think about it.”

“She meant that I shouldn’t _use_ it, not that I can’t be _fitted_ for it,” Wash snaps. “I’m going to need it eventually.”

Which is something that Tucker can’t even bring himself to _think_ about just yet—Wash out there, _fighting_ again _,_ in armor. “I have to meet with Kimball and Doyle, as well. They want to know if I heard or saw anything that might be helpful in—in that hospital.”

Tucker knows he’s pushing his luck, but this is too much. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he asks, aghast. “They want you to talk to them about what happened—don’t you think it’s a little early for that?”

“It’s fine,” Wash insists. “I’m fine. I can talk to them about—”

“Is there anyone on this base that you _aren’t_ planning to talk to besides me?”

Wash jerks back a little, frown lines appearing between his eyebrows. “I— _what?_ ”

“Nothing,” Tucker mutters. “Look I—I have stuff to do today, too, alright? I’ll—I’ll see you later.”

He takes his time dragging his feet out of the door, hoping that Wash will tell him not to go, but Wash doesn’t say a word. Wash makes _absolutely no move_ to stop him, and before Tucker knows it he’s standing at the end of the hallway, glaring back at Wash’s door with his hands shoved in his pockets.

Okay. This is fine. He just—just has to get over himself, is all. Wash wants space, Tucker can give him space. There’s plenty of other shit he can be doing, like….

His knuckles brush against something hard in his pocket, and Tucker pulls the object out with a frown. Dog tags. _Fitz’s_ dog tags.

With a rush of guilt, he realizes all at once where he needs to be.

* * *

Tucker spends a good five minutes fidgeting outside the doorway to the larger section of the infirmary, working up the nerve to walk in. He hasn’t been in here since before their rescue mission, partially because things had been so touch and go with Wash.

That, and because he can’t bear to think about what’s waiting for him on the other side of the door.

Tucker pushes it open anyway, taking a deep breath and fishing Fitz’s dog tags out of the pocket of his fatigues once more. He feels equal parts relief and trepidation as every eye in the infirmary zooms towards him, and takes a few more determined steps into the room. “Captain Tucker,” Andersmith’s voice breathes from the nearest bed. “It’s an honor to see you.”

There’s a scoff from across the way, and Tucker glances up to see Sabine standing at Ali’s bedside, arms folded tightly across her chest. “That’s one word for it.”

Tucker swallows hard, looking back to Andersmith. “How, uh. How are you feeling?”

“Right as rain,” Andersmith says staunchly, following Tucker’s gaze to the bandages across most of his chest. “A simple wound. Mostly healed.  How is Agent Washington?”

“He’s out of the hospital,” Tucker says, then, deciding he can’t ignore the silence that has swept the entire infirmary, he addresses them all. “Wash—Agent Washington—won’t be back in the field for a while, but uh. He’s out of the hospital so…so yeah.”

His chest tightens at the murmur of relief that goes through the room. “Is it true?” one of the Feds— _Flint,_ Tucker remembers after a moment—asks from where’s he’s propped up in bed. “Is it true that _the Architect_ came back to help operate on Wash’s brain?”

Tucker gnashes his teeth together, weighs the pros and cons of lying, and ultimately can’t find any convincing reason not to tell the truth. Christ, he’s never met a bigger bunch of gossips in his life. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s true.”

“Cool,” Flint says, to general enthusiasm. “So he’ll be fine, then.”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Yeah. He’ll be alright. Uh…”

He fidgets, caught between a wild desire to make a motivational speech, and to sprint right back out the fucking doorway. In the end, the words won’t come, but he forces himself look around at them all anyway. “Uh. Thanks. I—I wish that mission hadn’t been so fucked and I’m…I’m sorry.”

He turns to the nearest bed, where Flint is gesturing for his attention. Tucker makes his way through the room, exchanging a few words with those who wish it, and simply nodding at the ones who don’t. He avoid Ali’s bed for as long as possible, and when he can do so no longer, he crosses the room with his eyes locked onto Sabine’s. She tracks his progress the whole way, and when he reaches the bedside she says, “You’re _not_ welcome here,” not troubling to keep her voice down. “Ali is too polite to say it, so I will. _Leave_.”

“I just…” Tucker forces himself to look at Ali then, looks at where his arm cuts off at the wrist, before meeting those calm, dark eyes. He holds out Fitz’s dog tags. “I just wanted to give these back to you, and say…say I’m _sorry._ I shouldn’t have dragged you onto that mission—”

“You didn’t _drag_ me anywhere,” Ali says. He rolls his eyes and takes the dog tags, clutching them tightly. “That mission was _volunteer_ only. We all knew what we were getting into.”

“You had no idea what you were getting yourselves into,” Sabine continues, undaunted. “If Captain Tucker hadn’t been so _reckless,_ we would’ve had more _time_. But he was _so eager_ to rescue his boyfriend—”

“Wash is my friend _, too,_ Sabine.”

Sabine snorts. “Do you think he considers _you_ one? You think he would’ve gone on that mission for _you?_ Agent Washington would leave this planet in a _heartbeat_ if it was in his best interests.”

“Agent Washington just spent the better part of _a month_ being tortured because he was taken on a mission while _protecting_ this planet,” Tucker says through gritted teeth. “ _Don’t_ —if you want to blame someone, blame me.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I _am_.”

Ali sighs, rolling his head to look at Tucker. “How _is_ he? Really?”

“He’s okay,” Tucker says automatically. Great. Now _he’s_ fucking doing it, saying Wash is fine when he’s _not._ “I mean—he _will_ be. He’s…they really did a number on him.”

“Man, this is so fucked up—”

“I’m sorry I cut your hand off,” Tucker blurts. He thinks if they dance around the subject for another second he might scream. “I’m—I’m _so_ sorry.”

“Tucker…” Ali sighs again. “If you hadn’t, I’d be dead. I do know that, man.”

“But your art…”

“I know that too,” Ali says, and his voice is tighter now, smile strained. “So just—don’t. Okay? This isn’t _about_ you. It’s about Wash, and it’s about everyone in _this_ room. It’s not about you and your guilt. So just—let it go.”

Tucker swallows heavily. “I can’t do that.”

“Sounds like that’s _your_ problem,” Sabine growls. Ali places his remaining hand on hers and she leans away but continues to watch him unblinkingly.

“It is your problem,” Ali says quietly. “I can’t help you with what you’re feeling, Tucker. To be honest, I don’t really _care._ Wash was my friend before I was yours, and it’s for _him_ that I lost my hand, lost my...” Ali swallows and Tucker wishes the ground would give way beneath him. “We, all of us _left_ in this room, we went for _him_ and our loses were for _him_. You could have led us better, it’s true, but _we_ could have followed better.” He reaches out for Tucker, but he can’t bring himself to grasp his hand. Ali drops it to the bed with a sigh. “Too many of us on Chorus follow _blindly_ now, follow _friends_ now, because there is nothing else left for us. Your guilt is for you and our deaths are for us.”

Sabine’s jaw ticks. “You’re wasting your words on him, Ali. _Captain_ Tucker has no concept of what it is to think beyond himself.”

Tucker wants to say that’s not true, that he’s come so very far from who he was, that he understands the loses sustained, that if he could he would do everything different.

But then he thinks of Wash waking up on Grey’s table and the nastier, darker parts of himself rise up and he knows, he _knows_ , he wouldn’t change a thing, not if the risk was for Wash never coming home. Some of this feeling must have shown on his face, because Ali smiles grimly.

“Let it go, Tucker.”

He nods reluctantly.

“And Tucker?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t _ever_ bring my hand _or_ my art up again.”

“Okay,” he whispers, and turns to leave.

He wants to bolt, but he allows himself to be stopped by several other beds on the way to the infirmary, where everywhere the questions are the same: _How is Wash? How is he_ _really?_ _Is he okay? Are you okay?_

“He’s fine,” Tucker says, over and over and over again, and he hates it, hates himself more and more with each answer, because he cannot say the real one:

_I don’t know._

_**I don’t know.** _

* * *

 

 

Tucker walks.

He paces the halls of the base, wandering up and down familiar corridors, and some unfamiliar ones, too. Fitz’s tags are no longer in his pocket, leaving him nothing to hold onto—Tucker hadn’t even realized how much he’d been doing that lately until they were gone—so he alternates between clenching his hands in his fists and tying his hair up and letting it down. Tying it up and letting it down. Tying it up and—

_It is your problem._

Bile rises in the back of his throat and Tucker stumbles to the nearest wall, breathing deep. The corridor is blessedly empty, and he sinks down against the wall, dropping his face between his knees and sucking in air until the overwhelming urge to vomit has passed.

Even still, he sits there, staring dully at the opposing wall, holding his right hand in his left and wondering what it’d feel like to lose it. Tucker pulls out his datapad swipes through Basebook until he reaches Ali’s page, covered top to bottom in his drawings. He looks at every single one of them, even scrolls back to see some paintings, made with _real_ paint, that must be from before the war.

Tucker scrolls to the top and lingers on the one of him staring at Wash in the mess hall, that goofy grin on his face. Ali had gotten every detail right—the dimples on Tucker’s cheeks, the scar on the back of his knuckles, the exact thickness of his dreads. Most importantly, he’d nailed that silly, love struck smile.

_Sounds like you really fucked uuuup._

Wash’s voice whispers through his memory, light and teasing, and Tucker presses his head back hard into the wall, eyes squeezed shut. “You have no fucking idea, dude,” he mumbles. There was still so much he had to tell Wash, how he hadn’t gotten to his Pelican fast enough, how he’d spearheaded that god-awful mission and gotten people _killed—_

_—nine dead three critical two lost limbs thirty minutes—_

He still had to tell Wash how he’d _fucked up_ this time.

Tucker glances at his datapad, startled to find that it’s already well into the afternoon. Panic hits him hard, a solid wall springing up out of nowhere, and Tucker clambers to his feet, chest constricting. Wash. He—he has to find him, has to make sure he’s okay. It’s been hours since Tucker’s last seen him and _what if—_

 _I don’t need you to take care of me,_ Wash reminds him, but Tucker grits his teeth and hastens his steps anyway, lets them lead him to the armory.

He stops in the doorway, keeping carefully out of sight, relief spilling over him as he catches sight of Wash’s bright blond hair. He’s standing over a selection of armor that he’s laid out over the floor, eying them critically, one hand cupped over the back of his neck and the other on his hip. Tucker can’t see his face from here, but he can see the dejected slump of his shoulders.

The urge to go to him is overwhelming, but Tucker does not. He backs out of the doorway slowly and turns the corner.

Once more, Tucker walks.

* * *

The antsy energy brought on by the infirmary does not leave him no matter how long he paces, which is how Tucker finds himself shuffling reluctantly into the training room out of sheer desperation. He can’t sit _still,_ and think about how Wash is fine, or isn’t fine, or what the fuck he is or _isn’t_ telling Kimball and Doyle right now. Moving is good. Moving is healthy and shit. Moving will distract him—

“Oh my God,” Tucker grunts, “I fucking _sound_ like him.”

“Talking to yourself, buddy?”

Tucker turns to see Epsilon hovering in front of him, arms folded. “Yeah yeah,” Tucker says grumpily. “Where’s Carolina?”

He spots her even before he finishes asking the question, gloved up across the room and beating the living Christ out of a punching bag. At least he isn’t the only one in a shitty mood. “Hey,” he calls across the room. “Wanna spar?”

Carolina doesn’t turn to look at him, although everyone else in the training room does. There aren’t many people in there, just a handful of Feds and—Tucker is displeased to see—the fucking _Architect_ himself, running laps around the perimeter. “Ugh, what the fuck is _he_ doing here?”

“Good question,” Epsilon mutters, tracking Dr. Tronosky’s movements. “Guess he doesn’t have any other brains to carve up.

“See you’re not scared of him anymore, at least,” Tucker says, and Epsilon glares at him.

“Hey, _fuck you,_ I wasn’t _scared_ of him!” Epsilon protests. “I just, you know, don’t exactly _love_ the guy is all.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Oh, cut it out you two,” Carolina says, appearing a little breathlessly at Tucker’s shoulder. “You’re both too worked up about this.”

“ _Carolina_ here is bound and determined to prove how much his presence doesn’t bother her,” Epsilon says sourly. “She’s got a _point_ to prove.”

Carolina rolls her eyes at him before turning to Tucker. “Are we sparring or what?”

“Fuck yeah we are!”

“Good. Get your sword.”

Tucker makes a face, enthusiasm wilting. “Ugh, I don’t wanna spar with my sword. Can’t we do some hand to hand instead?”

“No,” Carolina says. She glances around a little and lowers her voice. “There’s a big mission coming up.”

“Okay….is it a _super secret mission_ , too?”

“Yes,” Carolina says seriously, either not picking up on Tucker’s sarcasm or choosing to ignore it. Epsilon rolls his whole head in the background. “We’re going to try to take that hospital.”

The smirk disappears from Tucker’s face at once. “Wait, we are? The one where they had Wash?”

“That’s the one,” Carolina says. She reaches behind Tucker for the equipment racks, dragging their practice swords to the forefront. “Dr. Grey recognized some of the nurses, when we were breaking Wash out. They’re civilians.”

“So…we’re gonna try to rescue them?”

“That’s right.” Carolina smiles, but there’s nothing pleasant about it, only something twisted and ugly that Tucker revels in. “And if we run into Felix and Locus, all the better.”

Tucker grins fiercely back. “Sounds like a fucking plan to me.”

Carolina nods. “Kimball isn’t convinced that you should go.”

“ _What?_ Is she fucking kidding?”

Carolina holds up a hand. “Just hold on. I’m not convinced you should go either. I’m not convinced that you can _stick to the mission.”_ She overrides Tucker’s sputtering. “But, I knew that you’d want to. It’s going to be a very close-quarters mission, which means…well. It means we need you, and your sword.”

She thrusts a training sword at him and Tucker takes it. “So this is, _what,_ some kind of fucking _test?_ ”

“Something like that,” Carolina says sweetly. “Think you’re up for it?”

Tucker narrows his eyes. “I’m _always_ up for it, baby.”

Thirty minutes later, after Carolina has send him sprawling to the mats for the twentieth fucking time, Tucker is seriously starting to regret that joke. And this sparring session. And ever picking up that fucking sword to begin with. He hauls himself up anyway with gritted teeth, ignoring the snickering from the Feds, ignoring Dr. Tronosky, who has, for some reason, taken an interest in their sparring match and isn’t even bother to be subtle about watching them as he stretches out from his run. It gets harder and harder to ignore him, particularly after the little, “hmmmm,” he makes when Tucker lunges in and misses Carolina by three yards.

“Can I help you?” he snaps finally, lowering his sword and spinning to face Dr. Tronosky. “’Cause it seems like there’s something you wanna say.”

Dr. Tronosky blinks, clearly startled out of some sort of daze. “Huh? Oh, no—my apologies. Continue.”

Tucker narrows his eyes suspiciously, but is jolted back to reality when Carolina grabs him, laying the blade across his throat. He curses, finally managing to wrest her off and ignoring the fact that he _definitely_ would have lost a hand had that sword been real. Their match continues, Tucker sinking back into the flow of it and trying to find an opening in Carolina’s guard, something, _anything—_

“You need to torque your hips more.”

Tucker groans, lowering his sword and whipping around to face him. “Dude, don’t fucking lecture me on what to do with my hips, okay, I _know_ what to do with—”

“No, do it.”

Tucker spins to look at Carolina. _“What?”_

She shrugs. “He’s right. You’re still driving from the arms. Drive from your hips.”

“But—”

“Do you want to get better at this or not?”

Tucker narrows his eyes at Dr. Tronosky, but turns back to Carolina, and this time when he lunges, he torques his hips. The increase in force behind his swing is obvious, and Tucker doesn’t know whether to be pleased or annoyed.

“Huh,” Dr. Tronosky says mildly, and continues in his stretching.

“Fuck’s sake,” Tucker grumbles, and resumes training.

Five minutes later—

“You need to increase the tilt of your sword by fifteen degrees.”

Tucker drops his sword with a clatter. “Okay, _seriously?_ ”

“Like this?” Carolina asks, and she tilts her sword a little, mimicking Tucker’s earlier posture.

“No—tilt it the other way, like—may I?’

She hands him her sword, ignoring Tucker’s sighs, and he demonstrates. “It’s a slight adjustment in the wrist, see? You try.”

Carolina takes her sword back and does to what Tucker’s eyes looks like the exact same shit he was doing before, but her eyes light up in understanding and Dr. Tronosky nods his approval. “Yes! Did you feel the difference in—”

“In my forearm,” she says, nodding, then looks at him appraisingly. “Have you used this weapon before?”

“A Sangheilli sword? Can’t say that I have,” he says. “But I _did_ fence in college. Fencing keeps the mind and the body sharp.”

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Tucker snaps, to no one in particular. They both ignore him.

“Hmmm,” Carolina says, and Tucker doesn’t like the look in her eyes one little bit. “Do you think you’d be able to show Tucker some footwork? I know fencing isn’t _quite_ the same, but—”

“No no, I think a lot of the same principles will apply,” he muses. “It’s a one-handed weapon, much like fencing—of course, the weight is different, but…”

Carolina hands him her sword again, and he hefts it experimentally. He moves with it, a few slashes and stabs that Tucker is _very_ much displeased to see look fucking textbook, and a hell of a lot cleaner than his own wild swinging.

Tronosky comes to a halt, bringing the sword down to his side neatly as if he’s in some training competition and not a training room. “I could show you a few things,” he says to Tucker, then glances quickly at Carolina. “If that’s okay with you?”

Carolina shrugs. “It’s fine. We haven’t been able to find a single person on this planet who knows _any_ swordplay, so…”

“Uhh….” Tucker glances between the two of them. “How about, is it okay with me? Because it’s _not._ ”

Carolina sighs. “Tucker, he can _help you_ —”

“Are you fucking serious? You watched him do one bullshit kata and you think he’s some sort of protégé?”

“I know movement,” Carolina snaps. “Better than _you._ We haven’t been able to find a single person on this planet who’s worked with a sword, and we have one here on a silver platter—”

“I don’t care of it’s a gold and diamond platter! I don’t want him to teach me _shit!_ ”

Dr. Tronosky shrugs, offering the sword to Carolina. “Well, if you change your mind—”

“Wait,” Carolina says sharply, then turns to Tucker. “Tucker, this isn’t up for debate. You’re learning from him. End of story.”

“What—you can’t tell me what to do!”

“Actually, I _can_ ,” Carolina says coolly. “Kimball and Doyle put me in charge of all training regimens until Wash is fit for duty, and I’m assigning you private lessons with Dr. Tronosky five days out of the week.”

“Five days a week? _Five_ days?!”

“You heard me.” She levels a glare at him. “I suggest you make the most of them.”

And then she _leaves,_ straight up hands her sword back to Tronosky and _walks out the fucking door_. Tucker glares at the group of Feds who are looking between the two of them with interest, waits until they hasten to continue with their own workouts, and then turns to Dr. Tronosky. “I don’t like you.”

“That’s fine,” Dr. Tronosky says mildly. “I can tell.”

“So you don’t wanna train me, then?” Tucker asks quickly.

“I have no opinion on the matter,” Dr. Tronosky says with a shrug. “It’s been a while since I fenced, but I may be able to clean up your footwork.”

Tucker folds his arms across his chest, eyeing the doctor and weighing his options. As much as he’d really, _really_ like to tell this fucker where to go, he thinks he wants to go on the mission more. “Do we have to start _now?”_

“I think starting tomorrow will be fine,” Dr. Tronosky says. “You’ve been training for a while and should probably take a break.”

“I don’t need a _break_ ,” Tucker snaps, firing back up. “I can keep going, I’m _fine_.”

Dr. Tronosky is eyeing him a little more closely now, and Tucker doesn’t look the look on his face one bit. “Have you been sleeping?”

Tucker groans. “Dude, I just told you, I’m fine.”

_I’m fine._

“I have to go,” he says abruptly, spinning towards the door.

“Same time tomorrow, then?” Dr. Tronosky calls after him.

Tucker grunts. “Whatever,” he snaps, and shoulders his through the training room doors.

* * *

Evening finds Tucker standing outside the door to his quarters, warring with himself. He wants nothing more than to go find Wash, to flop on his chest and fall asleep for the next ten years, but he forces himself not to go searching the base. Wash doesn’t need to hear about Tucker’s shitty day, doesn’t need any kind of weird pressure put on him when he has so much to work through already. Yet Tucker still stares at the door to his own room, and finds himself unable to push his way inside. He hasn’t been in this room since before Wash had been taken, and the thought of sleeping in his bed still fills him with dread. Tucker is just raising his hand to open the door anyway, just to _look,_ when he hears a noise, and turns to see Wash coming down the hallway, and his heart lifts.

“Hey, how was—” He stops, alarmed, when he gets a good look at Wash’s anguished face. “Whoa, what the fuck happ—”

“Why didn’t you _tell me?_ ”

Tucker freezes. “Tell you what?”

“Tell me that…tell me that…”

Wash breaks off, hands going automatically to his hair and clutching tightly in that way he does when he’s stressed or panicking. His hair is longer than Tucker’s ever seen it, the strands winding between his fingers. Tucker moves forward, reaching for his wrists without thinking, but Wash jerks back at the first brush of Tucker’s fingers against his hands. “Don’t,” he gasps, voice high and strangled, and Tucker backs off at once, hands up.

“Okay,” he says calmly, even though his heart is pounding in his throat. “Look, why don’t you come in here, sit the fuck down, and tell me what’s up?”

Wash does not sit the fuck down, nor does he remove his hands from his hair, but he does follows Tucker into his room and lets Tucker close it behind them. Tucker hastily retreats to the other side of the room, lets Wash be the one closest to the exit.

For a while, they stand there in silence, the only sound Wash’s labored breathing. Tucker’s fingers twitch, the urge to go to him, to hold onto Wash’s wrists and tell him to count, to _breathe_ , to stop pulling at his hair is overwhelming, but he does nothing, says nothing as the silence stretches on and on.

“Wash,” he says finally. “Tell me what—”

“People _died_.”

Everything inside of Tucker freezes, blood chilling, heart icing over, goosebumps rising on his flesh. “What?” he manages to say, even though he knows _exactly_ what Wash is talking about.

“People died,” Wash says again. “People _died_ —trying to find me?”

“Wash,” Tucker says, and it takes everything he has to keep the waver out of his voice. “Wash, it wasn’t—”

“ _Why?_ Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

Anger sweeps through him at the pure betrayal in Wash’s tone, because no. _No,_ they are not going there, no, he is not having this, _no, no, no._ “Uh, hmm, let me think. See if I can come up with a few reasons. Oh, I know, how about the fact that you just got out of _brain_ surgery and have been out of the infirmary for like, thirty seconds? Or the fact that you were tortured for twenty-four days? Or the fact that I knew you were gonna flip the fuck out? Or—”

“How many?”

Tucker stops, blood thudding in his ears. “What?”

“How many people died?”

“I’m not doing this,” Tucker says, with a vehement shake of his head. “I’m not gonna give you all these fucking details so you can _beat yourself up over them!_ ”

_“How many people?”_

There’s a desperate, half-crazed look in Wash’s eyes when he asks it, and Tucker has to turn away to get himself under control. He half expects to hear the door slamming as Wash leaves, and when Tucker turns back around to snap at him, it dies in his throat. Wash’s arms are crossed tightly over his chest, hands cupping his elbows, shoulders hunched as he determinedly meets Tucker’s eye. “Wash, sit. _Down_.”

They stare at each for a few moments before Wash finally moves, inching over to sit on Tucker’s bed. Tucker sucks in another breath and comes to sit next to him. “I want to know what happened,” Wash says immediately when he sits. “While I was gone. I want to know what happened, and I want to know who died, and I don’t want you to lie to me about it.”

“Fine,” Tucker says evenly, “but I have a condition.”

Wash’s eyes snap to his, immediately closing off defensively. “And what’s that?”

“I don’t wanna hear you say any shit like, _‘you shouldn’t have come for me,’_ or _‘I didn’t deserve that._ ’ Got it?”

Wash narrows his eyes, “Tucker—”

_“Promise me.”_

Wash opens and closes his mouth several times and Tucker sees it then, that Wash _can’t._ He can’t promise that, because it is still so impossibly difficult for him to grasp.

Tucker is the one pushing off the bed now, ripping the hair tie from his dreads and twisting it angrily as he paces. “This is such _bullshit!_ ”

“Alright, look—”

“No, _you_ look!” Tucker forces himself to stop pacing, but he continues to twist the band, over and over until it’s nearly at the point of snapping. “I’m so fucking sick and tired of you pulling this bullshit! You don’t know what it was _like._ _You don’t know what it was like_ —I was—we were fucking _losing_ it. Okay? People were _losing_ it with you gone. Don’t you—don’t you _dare_ tell me that you weren’t worth it. Don’t you _dare_ tell me that I got people killed for _nothing_.”

The band snaps. Wash stops trying to cut in, eyes widening as Tucker covers his face with his hands and breathes, once, twice, three times. “You don’t know what it was like,” Tucker says calmly. “You have no idea.”

“Then tell me.”

Tucker casts him a suspicious glare, but he inches his way across the room until he’s standing in front of Wash. “Nine. That’s how many people died. Nine. We—we got that _video_ —” he spits the word “—and people just _flipped._ _I_ lost it. The intel was shit and I knew it, but I was so fucking _terrified_ that we were gonna lose you if we waited another second that I—I _pushed_ for it anyway. The only reason we got in a second time is because Grey had the idea of using the subways and—well, Sarge told you that part.”

Wash nods, swallowing hard. “I—I heard there was a bombing?”

Jesus _Christ._ He sure is gonna have a thing or two to say to whoever has been telling Wash this shit so _soon._ “Just after they grabbed you. And don’t you _dare_ say that was your fault too, Wash, I swear to _God_ —”

“I wasn’t going to!”

“Good.” Tucker sets his jaw. “Because it really _sucked._ We lost…we lost a lot of people. Thirty-three. They bombed the fuck out of us and it was the shittiest thing ever, because people died and you weren’t there.”

Wash is quiet for some time before he turns to face Tucker more fully. “What else happened?”

Tucker lets out a hollow laugh, dropping his hands and letting them fall heavy in his lap. “What do you mean, what _else?_ You were gone and we were freaking out. It was horrible. Every single minute was horrible.”

Wash gestures around the room. “You haven’t slept in here.”

Tucker groans, shoving himself off the bed. “No, Wash, I haven’t _slept_ in here. My fucking bed smells like your stupid shampoo and your stupid hair is all over my sheets and I couldn’t like, be _here_ in a _bed_ while you were—while they were—”

Wash catches Tucker’s arm as he stalks by. “I’m _right here,_ Tucker.”

Tucker exhales a shaky breath, turning to squeeze Wash’s hand. He drops to a crouch in front of him, presses the back of Wash’s fingers to his mouth and breathes. “You saw that video,” Wash says quietly, and Tucker nods. “The whole thing?”

“The whole fucking thing,” Tucker confirms. He waits to see if Wash will say anything more, will tell him about the bruises on his face, about the knife wound across his cheek, about the _fucking hickey_ on his neck, but he doesn’t, and after a while Tucker sighs.

For lack of anything better to do, Tucker yanks his shirt over his head and reaches to grabs sweats from his drawer, sitting down heavily on the bed. He’s yanking furiously on laces of his boots when Wash’s hands settle over his own. “Let me,” he says quietly.

Tucker leans back and lets him. Wash takes his time about it, pulling the mess of knots apart methodically, loosening the laces all the way down to his feet. He pulls off the right, and pauses in the midst of removing the left, pressing his forehead to Tucker’s knee. Tucker hesitates before setting his hand gently on Wash’s head, hesitates further still before sliding his hand down the back of Wash’s neck to gently cup his implants. When Wash sags further against his knees, Tucker doesn’t hide his sigh of relief, and starts to run his fingers through Wash’s hair. They’re quiet like that for a time until Wash finally pulls away and finishes pulling off the boot. His head is still bowed and Tucker marvels at what it means, that Wash is before him, on his knees, shoulders slouched and neck exposed. It’s because of that and that alone that Tucker is able to hold himself together when Wash pulls away and rises to his feet.

“You’re exhausted, Tucker.”

Tucker swallows. “I’m—”

He almost says it. He almost looks Wash in the eye and tells him that he’s fine when he’s _not_ , and he chokes the words off just in time. “Yeah,” he says instead. “Yeah, I’m—I’m pretty fucking tired.”

He can tell, from the slight tightening around Wash’s eyes, that he knows damn well what Tucker almost let slip, but he says nothing to acknowledge it. Instead, he walks over to Tucker’s locker to pull a fresh pillowcase from Tucker’s pilfered stack of sheets, and swaps it out for the one that’s been on Tucker’s bed for a month. “There,” he says, trying for a smile but not entirely managing it. “That one doesn’t have my hair all over it.”

Before Tucker can answer, Wash grabs one of Tucker’s headbands from his bedside crate and slips it carefully over his head. Tucker closes his eyes as Wash carefully tucks his dreads back, sliding the headband up over his forehead. He keeps them closed as he feels Wash’s lips press against the top of his head, as he feels Wash’s hands cup his cheeks, as he feels Wash’s forehead rest against his own.

Tucker wants to _scream_ at him. He wants to tell him that it isn’t _fair,_ it isn’t _right_ that he takes such good care of Tucker when _he_ should be the one taking care of Wash. It’s all he wants. _It’s all he wants,_ to be the one brushing _Wash’s_ hair out of his eyes, to be pulling back the sheets on _Wash’s_ bed and tucking him in, but he _isn’t,_ he doesn’t know _how,_ he doesn’t know what to _say,_ and even if Tucker could find the right words, his throat is too tight to let any of them out.

He keeps his eyes closed as he feels Wash pull away from him, the distance stretching wider and wider as Wash crosses his room and shuts the door, as Wash crosses the hall and opens the door to his own room.

Tucker stands, furious and sudden, grabs the foot of his bed and yanks hard. He tugs the whole thing away from the wall, inch by inch, and wrenches it around until it faces the window. It’s crooked and messy and smack in the middle of the room, but Tucker doesn’t care, just collapses right on top of the sheets. There, looking at the starlight falling across the foot of his bed and listening to the sounds of Wash and Caboose moving in their respective rooms, Tucker closes his eyes, and drifts off into an uneasy sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay guys, and thanks for your patience!!! Much love to my beta, [Melissa](http://hammeredpaint.tumblr.com), for all of her hard work on this chapter AND ON ALL OF THE CHAPTERS. Reminder that I am over at [littlefists](http://littlefists.tumblr.com) on tumblr and if there's going to be any sort of chapter delay, I'll post about it there. :)
> 
> MUCH LOVE TO YOU ALL


	36. Chapter 36

“You seem distracted today.”

Even as the words register, it takes some time for Wash to respond to them. He’s staring intently at a painting hanging on the wall of Dr. Grey’s office, letting the bright colors and bumpy texture soothe his mind. The painting is simple, depicting a flock of birds lifting off from a grassy field. Wash thinks they’re some species of crow, although these birds have bright blue eyes and are much larger than the ones back on Earth. “Where did you get that?”

Dr. Grey follows his gaze. “The painting? I found it, actually. It was hanging on the wall of one of the bombed-out houses on the east side of Armonia. Perfectly preserved, right in the middle of the blood and bones!”

“How did you get it _here?_ ”

Although Wash is still staring transfixed at the painting, he can hear the smile deepen in Dr. Grey’s voice. “The Colonel fetched it for me. Found the exact house by my description alone! Goodness only knows how he got it back here, but—well, I walked into my office one day and there it was!”

Wash nods absently. The thought of Sarge lugging an enormous painting across a war-torn Armonia for his lover is one of the least ridiculous things he’s heard of the sim troopers doing. “Why do you like it?”

“I love birds,” Dr. Grey says simply. “They’re beautiful.”

“Oh,” Wash says, then considers. “Birds are nice, I guess.”

“Wash.”

He sighs, dragging his gaze away from the painting reluctantly. “What?”

“What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing,” he says automatically, then manages a weak smile at her lifted eyebrow. “I just—I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” she says easily. “We can talk about birds some more, if you like.”

Wash’s eyes flick over toward the painting again. “You have a tattoo of one, on your shoulder. A bird.”

“I do,” Dr. Grey says, sounding a bit surprised. “How do you know that?”

He rolls his eyes, giving her a pointed look, and after a moment her face cracks into a grin. “Oooh, _yes!_ When you waltzed into this very office while Ollie and I were making love.”

Wash groans, burying his face in his hands. “You know what, never mind. I regret bringing that up.”

She laughs. “Do you have any tattoos?”

Wash lifts his face from his hands. “No, actually.”

“Hmmm,” she says, sounding surprised. “You know, I think you’re one of the only ones in this army who doesn’t. Definitely the only one of your friends.”

Wash frowns slightly, running through everyone and their tattoos mentally. “Even Simmons?”

“Even Simmons.”

“I’ve thought about it,” Wash says thoughtfully. “Many times. It just—never seemed totally right.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence once more, and when Dr. Grey speaks up again, he does not tense. “Would you like to talk about what’s bothering now? Or shall we talk a bit more about tattoos?”

Wash shrugs. “I—I’m fine. Tattoos. Tattoos sound good.”

“Okay,” she says easily, adjusting more comfortably in her seat. “So what sort of tattooshave you considered getting in the past—”

“It’s just—it’s _stupid._ ”

Dr. Grey tilts her head at him. “What’s stupid?”

Wash shrugs, hands twisting and untwisting in the sleeves of his hoodie. “It’s stupid,” he mutters again. “Stupid for me to talk about what I’m _feeling_ or what _happened_ to me.”

“It’s _not_ stupid,” Dr. Grey says firmly. “You’re in pain. That’s _never_ stupid.”

“Well, I _shouldn’t_ be in pain.”

“You have every right—”

“No, I don’t. It shouldn’t be this hard,” Wash snaps. Anger floods through him, vicious and hot, and he turns to the window, glaring out at the bright sun. “It shouldn’t—it’s not fair.”

“You’re right. It’s _not._ ”

“No, it’s…that’s not what I—you don’t understand.”

“Then _make_ me understand.”

Wash turns away from the window as quickly as he turned to look out of it, the red sunlight suddenly overwhelming. Blue. He needs _blue_ , cool and soothing, and he reaches for the blue pen on Dr. Grey’s desk, turning it over and over in his hands.

He focuses on it when he says, “It’s not fair that _I’m_ in pain, because people _died_.”

She says nothing, and Wash clicks the pen cap open and closed, open and closed.

“People died. Trying to find me. _That’s_ what matters. Not what _happened_ to me. I’m alive. I get to live.”

He doesn’t mean for the words to come out so bitter, but he does not try to take them back, either.

“Wash,” Dr. Grey says softly, and something in her voice has Wash looking up. When he does, he is startled to see her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Yes, there are others whose suffering may be comparatively greater than yours, and there are others still who are no longer around _to_ suffer, but… _Wash._ That does not mean that you don’t get to suffer, too. You have a _right_ to your pain.”

He’s clenching the pen so tightly that it starts to crack in his fist, and Dr. Grey puts her hand on his until he muscles relax, and he looks up to meet her eyes. “You have a _right_ ,” she says, “to _heal.”_

Wash doesn’t hide the tears he knows are shining in his own eyes, or the tremor in his voice as he says, “I don’t know if I believe you.”

“I know,” she says. “I know you don’t. But you must try. _You get to live,_ and that means you must _try_.”

“I just never thought….” Wash takes a deep breath and starts again. “I always knew they would come for me. The—the Reds and Blues. That’s what they do. I even knew Carolina would come, because we—we can’t _not._ But I never…I _never_ …”

“You never thought the other soldiers would come for you,” Dr. Grey says softly. “The Federalist and New Republic soldiers.”

Wash nods, unable to speak, and she continues. “Wash, I’m not sure if anyone has told you this, but there were people lining up for you. That mission was volunteer only, and there was no shortage.”

“They shouldn’t have done that,” Wash says at once. “Not for me. I—I didn’t even want to _stay_ here. I wanted to grab them—my friends—and leave. Run away as fast and as far as we could. I would have left every single person here to die and I wouldn’t have looked back.”

“And now?”

“And now…and now…”

Silence. He clenches his hand around the pen once more. “I—I’m not sure if I could leave,” he says slowly. “But I would still choose _them._ The Reds and Blues. If I had to. If it came down to it.”

“Wash—”

“So you see?” He laughs, bitter. “I don’t deserve those people lining up for me. I don’t deserve _this._ I don’t deserve that kind of—of _loyalty_ when I’ve done nothing for the soldiers on this planet.”

“That’s not true,” Dr. Grey says firmly. “You have done _wonders_ for this army. For both sides. I was there in that Federalist compound, remember? I watched you train those soldiers, day after day.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Wash mutters. “I knew that’s what I had to do to get my men back.”

“We always have a choice,” she says, “and you chose to train those soldiers to the best of your ability. You could have done so half-heartedly, but you _didn’t_. You taught them how to protect themselves. You did the same for the cadets when you arrived here.”

He shrugs, throat tight. “I still would have left. If Tucker and Caboose—if any of them had wanted to leave, I would have left.”

Dr. Grey is already shaking her head. “You are being _far_ too hard on yourself. Wash— _everyone_ has someone they would choose over another person. When the coin is in the air—when the finger is on the trigger—we all have those we would place above all others. That’s what every single one of the simulation troopers, as well as Agent Carolina, did when they left to get _you_ the second time. Consciously or not, they made a _choice,_ and they chose _you._ The fact that you are able to admit your choices so starkly is shockingly honest, but it does _not_ make you a terrible person, and it certainly does not make you unworthy of loyalty, or love.”

Her words are wrapping around him, falling warm and soft on his ears and settling somewhere in his chest. It is some time before he can speak. “I just. I _hate_ that they died. I would do anything to change that.”

“I know.”

“How do you live with it?” he asks her. “What do you do with that kind of pain?”

“Many things,” Dr. Grey says, and her eyes are bright once more. “But first, you must _allow_ yourself to feel it.”

* * *

When Wash leaves Dr. Grey’s office an hour later, he turns down the the quietest hallway he can find and stops at a large window, leaning against it.. There are places he needs to go, people he needs to see, but he needs this first—the quiet, and the feel of the windowpane cool against his forehead.

Wash doesn’t stay there for long, pushing off the windowsill purposefully and striding to Blue Team’s hallway. No one stops him, for which Wash is grateful, as he knows he needs to do this _now_. He knocks boldly on Caboose’s door the moment he approaches it, because he knows that if he doesn’t do it immediately, he never will. He is not going to stand outside in this hallway fumbling for words like a fool. Caboose is his friend. Caboose deserves _better_ than that. Caboose—

 _Has the world’s biggest eyes whenever he’s sad,_ Wash remembers in a panic as Caboose opens the door and stares at him morosely. Wash thinks he could handle it if they were puppy eyes, but they’re _not:_ they’re solemn and serious and cutting straight through to Wash’s heart. “Um. Hi, Caboose.”

“Hello, Agent Washington.”

Wash swallows, reaching an unconscious hand up to the back of his neck before forcing it back down. “Hey, buddy. Can I come in?”

“Yes,” Caboose says quickly, in that tone he has, the one that suggests he’ll listen to anything Wash has to say. Wash recognizes that guilty tone immediately. It’s the same one he used to use on Donut, the same one that he _still_ uses on Donut when he’s not careful. He hates it. He hates that it’s coming out of Caboose’s mouth, hates the implications of it, hates everything about this situation, right down to frown lines marking Caboose’s forehead.

Wash follows Caboose into his room anyway, realizing as he does so that it’s his first time in here. He isn’t sure what he was expecting—drawings on the wall, a mess to rival Tucker’s, the furniture rearranged. What he wasn’t expecting was for the room to be so _tidy_ , everything straightened, bed made perfectly crisp. Wash does not dwell on these details for too long, but that’s only because of the _walls._

They’re covered, absolutely _covered_ in pictures—all spaced out neatly in perfect lines. There’s Church, sniper rifle held tight to his chest in the same way Wash so often sees Caboose hold Freckles. Tex with her hands on her hips, glaring up at a huge tank. Tucker looking exasperated at the camera while putting his dreads up. Carolina laughing at something Epsilon said in the training room. The Reds. The Feds. The News. Kimball and Doyle, arguing with each other in a meeting.

And Wash himself, everywhere he looks. Reaching down a hand to help Tucker up after a sparring match in the canyon. Standing watch on the perimeter of Chorus, battle rifle held loosely in his hands. In the mess hall, head thrown back as he laughs at something Grif said.

For a while, Wash forgets why he came to Caboose’s room, staring transfixed at all of the photographs. “These are beautiful.”

They are. Even the pictures taken at random are composed beautifully, and the lighting itself is a work of art. “How did you take these? How did you _print_ them?”

“There is a very very nice camera installed in my helmet. I can take pictures just by blinking my eyes, so I also get them at the right moment. It’s, ah. It’s how I get such good pictures of everything, for Casebook.”

“Basebook,” Wash mutters absentmindedly.

“I printed them on the supply run—”

Wash pulls his gaze away from the pictures, exasperated. “Is there anything you guys don’t do on the supply runs?”

“No.”

“Of course not,” Wash sighs. “Well, they’re amazing, Caboose.”

“Thank you, Agent Washington,” Caboose mutters, and it’s his somber tone of voice that snaps Wash out of his reverie.

Wash takes a seat awkwardly on one of the upturned crates in Caboose’s room. It has a pillow on it and everything, as if it was placed with company in mind, and Caboose sits down on the crate across from him. “Caboose, I …I want to talk to you.”

“Okay,” Caboose says, and he sounds so depressed that it’s frankly jarring.

Wash frowns. “Caboose, why do you sound like that?”

“Sound like what?”

“Sound so…so…upset.”

“Because,” Caboose says mournfully. “Because you are about to tell me that you don’t want to be friends anymore, and I am about to be very sad, because I think you are a very good friend even though I am not—”

“Caboose,” Wash interrupts, stricken. He already can’t take this. “Yyou are _not_ a bad friend, _don’t_ say that.”

Caboose makes a noise of polite disbelief. “Ah, yes, but. See, I think I might be. You had to get a very scary surgery that you might not have needed if I had not hugged you.”

“I—I told you that was…okay,” Wash says awkwardly. “When I woke up, remember?”

“No you didn’t,” Caboose corrects. “What you said was, _it’s okay, kinda needed a hug, could maybe use one now and I said, you could?_ And you said _, yeah, think so_ , and that is not the same thing as me not being a bad friend.”

Wash closes his eyes briefly. “Caboose _, you are not a bad friend_.”

Caboose says nothing, just stares at him doubtfully. There’s a weird panic brewed up in Wash’s chest, because although Caboose is far from perfect, he is a good friend, the _best_ kind of friend, and the thought of him not knowing that is unbearable.

“Okay,” Caboose says slowly, although he doesn’t sound like he buys it in the slightest. “See, I thought that, too. I thought that I was a good friend—the _best_ kind of friend—but I was not careful when we found you, like I should have been.”

Caboose casts that owlish gaze on him, and Wash nods dumbly and says, “I know that,” for lack of absolutely anything else to say.

Just when Wash thinks Caboose is done speaking, he continues abruptly. “Is Tucker your best friend?”

Wash doesn’t have to think on that one. “You’re _both_ my best friend, Caboose.”

“Yeeeeeah,” Caboose says, thinking. “Yeah. You know, I did not think until I met you, that people could have two best friends. Bu now I know that you can have _more_ than two—you can have a whole bunch.”

Wash finds himself temporarily unable to speak, but that’s okay because Caboose keeps going. “If Tucker is not your best friend, then why do you and Tucker have a secret word?”

“I—what?”

“Because that is a thing that best friends have. They have secret bracelets, or hand signals, or words, and, well. That is a thing that you and Tucker have that you and I do not. And when you said your secret word, Tucker stopped moving, and I did not.”

Wash sees all at once where this is going, and tries to backtrack. “Caboose, that—that wasn’t—he just—I—we…”

Caboose waits patiently for him to stutter himself into silence. “Why did he know to stop?”

Oh God. He’s going to have to do it. He’s going to have to look Caboose in the eye and have a conversation about _safe words,_ and what they mean, and why he and Tucker have one. “Well,” Wash says slowly. “Tucker and I are—well, we’re—we’re…”

Any hopes he had of Caboose helping him out are quickly dashed when Caboose, usually content to chatter on happily, stares at him in dead silence with those solemn, serious eyes. He’s listening patiently, waiting for Wash to explain so that he can understand, and that’s what does it. He _wants_ to understand, wants to know why Tucker knew what he did not, and Wash will not patronize him, will not leave him in the dark over something that is so clearly ripping him up inside. “Caboose. You know that Tucker and I are…”

He hesitates once more, this time for lack of proper terminology. They had never discussed what they were, really, although it was clearly not a secret. Wash isn’t actually sure if Tucker is the kind of person for whom labels are important. “Boyfriends,” Wash finally says awkwardly. “Partners. You know. Dating. Or something.”

“Oh,” Caboose says, sounding mildly surprised, and Wash frowns.

“Did you not know that?”

“Oh no,” Caboose says earnestly. “I knew. I actually lost a lot of money because the two of you took so long to _become_ boyfriends because you were being stupid—”

“You were _in_ on that?”

“And it was very obvious, because you were always kissing and looking at each other with very big eyes like Church used to look at Tex and the way Carolina looks at General Kimball, so—”

“Wait, _what?!_ ”

“—so the entire _planet_ knows that you two used to be boyfriends. Tucker has kissed a lot of people, and it is _very_ annoying, but he kisses people differently when he is their boyfriend. See, when he is sad and angry, he kisses people he should not kiss to get sleepy, like when you and Sarge and Donut and Lopez were not here. He kisses boyfriends and girlfriends when he’s _happy,_ like when he kissed the nice yellow lady in Blood Valley, or like when he used to kiss _you._ That’s how everyone knew.”

It takes a few seconds for Wash to respond, as he’s rapidly running through every time he’s been the same room as Carolina and Kimball and trying to remember them making eyes at each other. “Wait, _used to be_ boyfriends?”

“ _Well_ ,” Caboose says, “well, now I am not so sure, because you have not been spending any nights together and you don’t kiss or hold hands anymore, and you don’t talk to Tucker, so—”

“Caboose, we’re still…together.” Even as he says it, more guilt worms its way into his stomach, guilt at the complete lack of affection he’s been showing Tucker. He shelves that thought for later and continues, trying to focus on the conversation at hand. “So, you know that when two people are together they do….physically…intimate…things.”

“The beast with two backs,” Caboose says serenely. “That’s what Sarge calls it.”

“Of course he does,” Wash sighs. “Well…when you’re doing more…intense…physically intimate things with someone, it’s a good idea to have a—a safe word. Something that you can say if you get uncomfortable or—or scared, or just want to stop. That’s why Tucker knew to stop, because _red_ was our…our—”

“Your secret word?”

“—our safe— _yes_. That. Exactly.”

“Hmm,” Caboose says, and Wash fidgets in embarrassed silence while Caboose ponders this. “Do you have to be dating someone to have a secret word?”

“I—” Wash pauses. “Well, I…suppose not, no.”

“Can we have a secret word?”

When Wash stares at him, Caboose continues, sitting up a little straighter on his crate. “See, I think that would be a good idea. If you and I had had a secret best friend word, then you could have said it, and I would have held very, _very_ still and not hurt you.”

“I—”

“Sometimes I do not like loud noises,” Caboose says seriously. “And, and if we had a secret word, and I said it, then maybe you could yell at everyone to be quiet. Or we could go somewhere else. And then when you forget your name, or where you are, or you do not want a hug, then you could say it I will know. I think that would be nice.”

“Right,” Wash says helplessly, then steels himself. “Yes, Caboose. Let’s do that. What would you like our secret word to be?”

“Does it have to be a color?”

“No. It should just be something—simple. Something easy to say, that wouldn’t normally come up in conversation.”

They both fall silent for a while thinking hard. Wash’s mind is utterly blank, and several minutes pass. Wash is just starting to despair when Caboose says, “Maximillian.”

Wash stares at him. “Maximillian.”

Caboose nods. “That is the name of my first pet. He was a hamster and he died and it made me very sad and I do not like to talk about him.”

“Oh,” Wash says. “Well. That. That certainly works, I don’t think that that’s a word that would come up in casual conversation.”

“So that’s it?” Caboose asks brightly. “That’s our secret word? Really?”

“Yes,” Wash says, and he can’t help but grin at the ecstatic look on Caboose’s face. “Feel better?”

“Oh, Wash, I—I feel much better,” Caboose says earnestly. “I still feel very sad that I did a stupid thing and I understand if you do not want to forgive me—”

“Of course I forgive you,” Wash hastens to assure him. “Caboose, we’ve—we’ve all done stupid things.”

“Not that stupid.”

“Yes,” Wash says firmly. “ _Yes,_ that stupid.”

Caboose doesn’t look completely convinced, but he nods and stands serenely, smoothing his hands over the pillow. “I am glad we talked, Agent Washington,” he says, “and I am _very_ glad that you are back.”

When he reaches out to hug Wash, it is a careful, gentle thing, soft hands and sure lines, and Wash leans into it without even thinking. He recalls, with sudden clarity, of the first time that Caboose had hugged him after a nightmare back on Rockslide, remembers how he’d stood there, frozen and stunned and completely unable to pull away.

He is not frozen now, as his own arms wrap around Caboose. He is not stunned, as Caboose rests his cheek on Wash’s shoulder, not stunned at all because this is what Caboose _does_ , hug his friends, his best friends, and _of course_ Wash is included in that, because—

Because _he_ is Caboose’s friend.

He is one of Caboose’s _best_ friends.

There is no question in his mind, and Wash finds himself marveling over this as he and Caboose break apart. Not the knowledge, or the sentiment, that Caboose considers him a best friend, but—

But the fact that he does not doubt it.

He doesn’t doubt it at all.

* * *

It takes Wash some time to find Tucker later that afternoon, and it’s by sheer chance that he peeks into the training room. Once he sees Tucker in there, hard at work with his wooden training sword, Wash feels rather guilty for not checking there in the first place. Tucker has come a long way from the lazy, mouthy soldier who would do anything he could to get out of training. He may not like it, but he very rarely tries to shirk his duties anymore.

Wash slips quietly into the gym and takes a seat along the bench by the back wall. At first he thinks that Tucker is running through katas by himself, but after some searching Wash’s eyes land on another figure watching him, holding a second wooden sword: Dr. Tronosky, of all people.

Wash’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead, and he hears a snort somewhere to his left. He glances over to see Kimball approaching him from the weight benches, snagging a towel off of the wall and wiping her forehead. She gestures towards Dr. Tronosky, who is now attempting to a show a very unhappy looking Tucker something with his sword. “Did you come to watch the show?”

“I…” Wash gapes as the doctor moves through the kata himself. “Does he know how to use one of those?!”

“ _Apparently,_ he used to fence.” Kimball drops heavily onto the bench next to Wash, turning her gaze to the floor where Tucker is watching Dr. Tronosky with his arms folded tightly across his chest. “Carolina assigned him and Tucker to train together five days out of the week.”

“Tucker didn’t tell me that,” Wash says, frowning. “Neither did Carolina.”

He can feel Kimball’s gaze flick towards him. “I’m sure they thought you had enough on your plate, Wash.”

“Well, yeah, but…”

He trails off, watching as Tucker stormily begins the kata again. This time, Dr. Tronosky stops him halfway through, and Wash can hear Tucker’s groan of frustration from across the room. “I _am_ shifting my weight!”

“I still would’ve liked to know,” Wash says finally. “I’m just—surprised he didn’t tell me, is all.”

“Apparently, Tucker isn’t too thrilled about it.”

“I can see that,” Wash says, as Tucker actually throws down his sword in frustration.

The silence that settles between him and Kimball isn’t as awkward as Wash would have expected, but he shifts uncomfortably nonetheless. “I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, and she turns to look at him with a frown.

“Wash, if you’re about to apologize for being taken prisoner, then—well, I can’t say I’m surprised, but I really wish you wouldn’t.”

“Not for that. I mean, I _am_ —it was a stupid mistake that got me shot, but—no. I’m sorry for the…the people who….” Wash swallows. “The people who died, on that mission.”

Kimball goes very still before turning slowly to face him. “You heard about that.”

Wash nods, and she sighs. “How?”

He gives her a look. “General, please. There are no secrets in this army.”

“True,” she allows. “Wash, I don’t blame you for that mission. To be frank, it seems pretty silly that you’re blaming yourself for something that you didn’t even know about until after the fact.”

“But—”

“ _No,_ ” she says sharply. “No buts. There are two people to blame for that mission, and that is myself and General Doyle. Tucker and Carolina may have pushed for it before we were ready, but Doyle and I _let_ ourselves be pushed. We gave the okay. The burden is ours. It’s heavy enough to shoulder without me having to reassure you of that.”

Wash nods. He can certainly understand that. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Kimball says, her voice still sharp. “Not just to me, but to _any_ of them. They deserve your thanks, _not_ your apologies.”

This time, Wash falls silent and after a moment she sighs. “I would like to apologize to you, though. It did take us an unforgivably long time to find you, and…and I’m sure you’ve heard by now that I locked the base down.”

“I did.” He frowns at her a little. “General, I don’t resent you for that. It was a tactical move and—”

“It wasn’t.”

Her voice has not changed, but there is a new tension in her jawline as she looks away. After a moment, she speaks again. “It was _not_ a tactical decision. It was as emotional one, just as emotional as Captain Tucker’s was, to find you. I didn’t do it for the army. I did it because—because every time one of them dies, a piece of me goes too.”

She gestures across the room to where a group of cadets are clustered. From the looks of things, Prajapati is attempting to show Britton how to spare with only one arm. Britton is giggling madly, falling all over Kennedy who is holding her up and grinning dumbly, while Prajapati rolls her eyes. Bitters is attempting to direct from the sidelines while Jensen shushes him, and Palomo is rolling on the floor laughing at something he just said.

Wash thinks back to what Dr. Grey said, about how each of them had those who they’d choose first, always, when their back was to the wall. “I wanted to leave, you know,” he says suddenly. “When we first arrived on Chorus. I didn’t want to stay.”

Kimball tears her gaze away from the cadets to roll her eyes at him. “I know that, Agent Washington. You aren’t subtle.”

He winces. “Do you think everyone else knew, too?”

“Yes,” she says. “It didn’t stop them from lining up for you, while you were gone.”

“So I keep hearing,” Wash says.

“You stayed, though,” she continues. “Regardless of your reasons, you stayed, and you’ve kept more than one of them alive. For that, you have my gratitude.”

When she holds out her hand, Wash doesn’t hesitate to shake it. “And you have my service, General. For as long as I’m able to give it.”

There’s a loud clatter across the room, and they look up just in time to see Tucker’s sword hit the wall as he stalks off. Dr. Tronosky watches him go with a sigh, then trudges wearily across the gym. Kimball rises, claps him on the shoulder, and with a final nod to Wash, crosses the room to her cadets.

Dr. Tronosky sits down in her vacated seat, staring blankly at the opposing wall. He looks so defeated, so very human in that moment, that Wash can’t help but grin. “How’s he doing?”

The doctor jolts himself out of his reverie, removing his glasses and rubbing a hand across his eyes. “Oh—Tucker’s _very_ physically gifted. I’m rather impressed with how well he’s done with that sword with no training, actually. He’s just…”

“Stubborn?”

Dr. Tronosky gives him a look. “Something like that.”

“You have my sympathy.”

“There’s also the fact that Tucker doesn’t like me very much.”

“Sure he does,” Wash says, then grins when Tronosky’s look grows even more exasperated. “Okay, fine. But it’s not that he doesn’t like you, he’s just….”

“Protective,” Tronosky says. “It’s nice. It’s nice to see that. I don’t begrudge him.”

“It seems like he could be a little nicer.”

Tronosky laughs. “I don’t think I’d like him as much, if he were.” Before Wash can ask him to elaborate, Dr. Tronosky stands. “I believe Tucker stormed off to the showers. He should be out shortly, if you’d like to wait for him.”

“I think I will.” Wash smiles up at him. “Thanks.”

With a final smile, Dr. Tronosky leaves, but not before re-racking his and Tucker’s training weapons. Wash turns his attention to Kimball and the cadets, all of whom are listening intently as Kimball demonstrates a few ways to break wrist holds using only one hand. His stomach still clenches whenever he catches sight of Britton’s severed arm, but he can’t help grinning at the enthusiastic way they all throw themselves into the training, or the way Kimball

A loud boom sounds with no warning, startling them all to their feet. Wash locks eyes with Kimball momentarily as the two of them sprint to the door as one, the rest of the training room not far behind. “That came from the armory,” Kimball says testily, and they tear down the hallway and push through the doorway—

To find Sarge batting at a small fire, coughing and waving his hands at them. “Nothing to worry about! Got a little project I’m working on, nothing to see, nothing to see—”

“Sarge, for heaven’s sake, that’s the third time this week!”

As Kimball storms into the armory and the cadets cluster in the doorway, Wash finds his gaze drawn towards the small fire that Donut is desperately trying to put out. While it isn’t large, he can feel the heat from here, and he skitters backwards before his brain catches up with his instincts—

_Felix’s hand fists harder in his hair the more Wash thrashes, strands catching in the gauntlets and tearing from his scalp.. He tries to ignore Locus watching him closely just behind the camera, tries to keep his gaze focused on the blinking green light, tries to think of friends that are watching just beyond it—_

_He tries, he_ tries _, but the pain is lighting up his nerves and he’s starting to panic. The space pirate is dragging the lighter along his side and someone is trying to break the door down on the other side and he’s forgetting every bit of RTI training he’s ever received as he_ screams _—_

 _No. No. This isn’t Freelancer, that isn’t Maine crashing through the door to save his ass yet again,_ no one _is crashing through the door, he is alone here in this room, and Felix’s voice is too close to his ear and there’s a horrible smell filling the room, the smell of his own burning hair—_

“Wash?”

Wash startles hard, stumbling out of the armory and slamming right into someone just behind him. He flinches away, hands flying up to the back of his neck as he whirls to meet Tucker’s wide eyes. “Wash—”

A wall. He needs his back to a wall, _now_ , he needs to watch his six and protect his implants. He stumbles clumsily backwards, searching, searching, and can’t stop another flinch when Tucker’s hands come to rest on his shoulders. “It’s okay. _It’s okay._ Look, just—”

Tucker guides him carefully down the hallway until Wash feels his shoulders press into the cool cinderblock wall. He glances around to make sure that no one is approaching, that it’s just him and Tucker—his hands curl into fists and he can still _smell_ it, his hair, burning burning _burning_ —

“Wash. _Breathe_.” Tucker catches one of his flailing hands and tugs it to his chest, holding it there. Wash flattens his hand out, pressing his palm firmly against Tucker’s chest until he can feel his heartbeat. He focuses on the steady vibrations, on the warmth of Tucker’s skin through his t-shirt and breathes. _Your back is to a wall_ , he tells himself firmly. _Your back is to a wall and it’s only smoke you smell, not flesh. Not your own flesh and hair—_

His other hand comes up to cup the back of his neck, fingertips running over the uneven, singed strands. Tucker’s hand follows his own, clamping down gently over his implants, and Wash breathes, counts mentally to ten to the cadence of Tucker’s heart.

They stand there in silence for some time once Wash’s breathing returns to normal, the sounds of Kimball’s yelling and still filtering down the hallway amidst crashes and what Wash thinks is the spray of a fire extinguisher. His hand is still pressed to Tucker’s chest, Tucker’s fingers folded protectively over his own, and he stares at them for a while, at how warm and soothing Tucker’s dark skin looks.

A particularly loud bang has them both jolting, and Wash gives his head a shake, tugging his hand back. “I’m fine.”

There is a shift in Tucker’s eyes at once, a hardening around the edges, but all he says is, “okay.”

“I…” Wash clears his throat. “Thank you, Tucker—”

“Stop,” Tucker says, his voice sharpening along with his eyes. “Don’t— _don’t_ thank me. I don’t want you to thank me for stuff like that.”

Wash nods automatically, pushing away from the wall, and Tucker backs off. “I—have to go.”

Tucker frowns a little, but makes no move to keep him there beyond raising a hand and letting it fall. “Okay, just—just be careful. You look a little woozy, dude.”

“I’m fine,” Wash insists. “It’s no big deal.”

“You sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about it. That was nothing.” It was. It _was_ nothing, _has_ to be nothing, because his skin is still crawling and despite Dr. Grey’s words, he doesn’t think he can let himself have this just yet, not outside of her office. If he doesn’t think about it—if he doesn’t talk about it, then—

Tucker grits his teeth, his words cutting through Wash’s thoughts. “You just had a _panic attack,_ Wash. That wasn’t nothing.”

“I have panic attacks all the time, Tucker.”

“That doesn’t make them _nothing!_ Shit, I don’t even know what that was about because you won’t fucking talk to me about it—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Wash says, sharper than he intended. “I told you, I’m fine—”

_“Stop saying that!”_

Tucker doesn’t quite yell it, but it’s loud enough to make the cadets exiting the armory glance their way. They scatter when Tucker glares at them before turning back to Wash. “Wash, I swear to God, if you tell me you’re fine _one more fucking time_ —”

“But I am!” Wash insists. “I _am_ fine—”

“Great,” Tucker says. He rakes a shaky hand through his hair. “That’s—that’s great, you know, that you’re fine, and I’m really fucking happy for you, but what about _me?_ ”

Wash’s heart plummets straight through the floor. “Tucker—”

“I don’t get it,” Tucker continues, still in that same shaky voice. “I don’t see how you can be fine after what happened when I’m—when I’m—”

He turns away, arms folded tightly across his chest. Wash reaches out a hesitant hand towards his shoulder, and lets it fall. “Tucker…”

“I have to go,” Tucker says abruptly. “I just—I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

As Wash watches Tucker walk away, Caboose’s words about the entire planet knowing they _used to be_ boyfriends echoes back to him. The conversation catches in his mind, prickling there, and for a long, uneasy moment he’s certain he missed something important in Caboose’s words, though he can’t remember what.

The moment passes and he wonders, just as uneasily, if Tucker has grown uncertain of his place in Wash’s life. Wash can’t blame him if that is the case: he’s done nothing to assure Tucker otherwise, made no effort to _talk_ to him or have _any_ type of physical contact. He needs to do better, move faster, if he doesn’t want Tucker to keep walking away from him for good.

Wash tucks that thought away as he turns, sighing, to walk in the opposite direction. He will consider it carefully later, weigh his options, come up with a plan to let Tucker know that he doesn’t _want_ to go anywhere.

Now, there is something that he needs to do.

* * *

Chorus is cold tonight.

It is unseasonably chilly, or at least Wash thinks so. He hasn’t been on this planet long enough to have a full understanding of how Chorus cycled through its seasons, but he thinks they are in the middle of what’s supposed to be summer. Tonight, though, the day’s sunny skies have turned grey and lifeless, clouds heavy with what Wash can only hope is rain.

There isn’t a soul outside, aside from those keeping watch on the perimeter, and even those soldiers pay him no mind as Wash walks across the darkening base. He isn’t certain if they recognize him or not—he’s wrapped up in one of Grif’s old sweatshirts, the hood drawn tightly over his head. Grif had taken pity on him in the early days at the crash site, during another sudden cold spell. They’d exchanged a look of dull understanding while Tucker had sauntered around the entire day in a tank top and sweat pants, dropping snarky comments about how it wasn’t _that_ cold out. Grif had never asked for the hoodie back, and hadn’t even said anything when he’d seen Wash wearing it around base since then. Wash supposes it belongs to him now.

It occurs to him, as he walks across the silent base, that it’s one of the few objects he can truly call his own.

If the guards recognize him, they do not stop him, and Wash is able to approach the war memorial uninterrupted. There are no graves here—if there is one thing that the armies agreed on, it was that all bodies must be burned—only two huge metal slabs, covered with names and dates. The first is more official looking, a neatly erected slab with the names and dates of those deceased stamped into it. It’s the second memorial that Wash is drawn to, the one that he knows the rebels had hastily built when they’d arrived at the capital. It’s a simple scrap of metal, looking as if it’s torn from crashed Pelican, the names and dates scratched into it with knives or fire or even, in some cases, sketched out with bullet holes.

He can’t help but notice that there are both New Republic and Federalist names on here, and that the more official memorial seems to have been abandoned in favor of the newer one. In addition to the names and dates, there are messages, symbols, and even drawings. Wash’s eyes linger for a while on Fitz’s name: _Thomas Fitz,_ complete with a small sketch of him that Wash recognizes at once as Ali’s style.

Nearly ten minutes pass before Wash can bring himself to locate the date of the disastrous first attempt to rescue him. The names of the nine who died are all grouped together, each one written in a different handwriting.

Wash reads each one. He whispers them into the cold evening air, runs his fingers over the metal, brings each face to mind and commits it to memory. Federalist soldiers that he spent months passing in the hallways of that base. New Republic cadets who he’d watched steadily improve, day by day, drill bye drill, obstacle course by obstacle course. Soldiers that he knew relatively well, and some that hardly knew at all. Young. Every single one of them _far_ too young, from Private Laura O’Leary at age eighteen, to Captain Dominic Ling, age thirty-three.

The mission was volunteer only, Kimball told him stiffly, and although she hadn’t said so, Wash could see plainly in her eyes that she hadn’t agreed with it. He wonders why she and Doyle let them go, why they had, as she’d said, let themselves be convinced.

Wonders if this has something to do with the guilt in Tucker’s voice when he’d told Wash he’d gotten people killed.

Wash’s eyes travel downward to the base of the memorial, to where there are dozens and dozens of seemingly innocuous objects piled. Bracelets and pins, cracked datapads and dead flowers, shirts and boots. Dog tags. Stuffed animals. Old school trophies. An engagement ring—

The sorrow hits Wash unexpectedly, twisting up his stomach and burning black in the center of his skull until he’s pressing his forehead against the metal, eyes squeezed shut. It’s nothing, nothing compared to the guilt: guilt that he was so very close to turning his back on this planet, guilt that he is the sole reason that nine people are dead—

Guilt that he has nothing to give them.

It’s a long time before he is able to trust his own two legs to hold him, and pushes shakily away from the wall. He glances again between the names and the beloved objects at the base, their simplicity rooting him to the spot. He can’t leave. He can’t, not until—

It’s with an unconscious desperation that Wash begins to pat up and down his body, searching for something, _anything,_ that he could leave them. He is just starting to despair when his fingers catch in the drawstring of Grif’s hoodie. He slides it free from the hood and ties it methodically in a knot, brushing his lips against it ever so slightly before he places the string on top of a tin coffee can. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, so softly that no one would be able to hear him even if they were standing nearby. Despite Kimball’s words, he can’t _not_ say it to them at least once. “I’m so sorry, and—and _thank you_.”

There is no reason that he should be able to see the black string in his mind so clearly, but it seems to call to him even as he walks away—a piece of him, left behind with little pieces of so many others.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Please note:** There is explicit discussion of a prior pairing in this chapter that is NOT in the main tags of this fic! There is a definitive reason it's not in the tags which I will happily explain to anyone who wants to know my reasoning, but in the meantime: if you'd like to continue reading with full disclosure, click the 'see the end of this chapter for more notes' link to jump to the bottom and see what the pairing is in my end of chapter notes (which obviously contains spoilers). Otherwise, proceed as normal!

The thing with close quarters combat is that Tucker _gets_ it.

He _does._ He appreciates why Wash tells him to stay close to his opponent, and he reads Carolina loud and clear when she lectures him about precision, and he understands what the fucking _Architect_ is saying about footwork. It would be easier if this were all way over his head, and he could fake ignorance and complain about how he never _asked_ to be the chosen one, but he gets it. He’s totally, one hundred percent on board when Dr. Tronosky talks to him about shifting his weight two degrees to the left, and lectures about why Tucker needs to torque his wrist, and prattles on and on about precision.

He gets it.

That doesn’t mean he _likes_ that he gets it.

He’s not terrible. He knew this even before Wash had started training him, before Carolina had cleaned up his katas. He knew, from the moment he picked up that stupid sword, that he was good. _He_ _knew,_ even as he cast an envious eye at Church’s sniper rifle, that he was meant for this: for swords, and knives, and fists. He was meant for speed, and reflexes, and snap second decisions.

He knew he was _good._

Which makes it even _worse_ that he’s not getting this.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Tucker hurls his sword to the ground once more while Dr. Tronosky frowns at him disapprovingly. “Why can’t I get this stupid move!”

Dr. Tronosky reaches down to lift Tucker’s discarded sword off the ground, looking at it as if it’s a puppy that Tucker just kicked or something. “You need to be more careful with this. It’s a beautiful replica that took Agent Carolina and Oliver quite some time to make—”

“How do _you_ know?” Tucker snaps, firing up. “How do _you_ know how long it took them to make? You weren’t _here._ And don’t call him _Oliver_. Jesus _Christ_.”

Dr. Tronosky pauses in his examination of the sword. “Isn’t that his name?”

“His name is _Sarge._ ”

“Oh,” Dr. Tronosky says. His brow furrows. “He hasn’t corrected me.”

This knowledge does absolutely nothing to improve Tucker’s mood. “He _hasn’t?_ ”

“No,” Dr. Tronosky muses. “I was under the impression that Sarge was a nickname used by his closest friends. I didn’t want to presume that it was okay for me to call him that.”

When Tucker only stares at him, Dr. Tronosky shrugs. “Names are important.”

“Whatever,” Tucker grunts, _supremely_ annoyed because Dr. Tronosky is _right_. “Can we just hurry this training bullshit up?”

“As you wish.” Dr. Tronosky says, offering Tucker’s sword back.

They reset, Dr. Tronosky doing that stupid _salute_ thing that Tucker begrudgingly reciprocates. He zeroes in on Dr. Tronosky’s mid-section, trying to find an opening, and after only a few clacks of their swords Tucker feels the sword jab into his stomach again. “ _Fuck!_ ”

“You’re not paying any attention to your peripheral vision,” Dr. Tronosky says calmly. “You’re far too focused on the target. I can see _exactly_ where you’re trying to strike me.”

Dr. Tronosky gestures at the precise area on his stomach that Tucker was aiming for, and Tucker huffs. “Well, Wash tells me to aim _small!_ Like, don’t aim for the face, aim for the corner of their jaw. He says if you narrow your target down to a one inch radius then the likely hood of actually hitting your target _somewhere_ increases greatly. Wash says—”

Tucker cuts himself off, torn between feeling pleased that he internalized that shit, and an unexpected ache at how he could practically hear those words in Wash’s own voice.

“Wash is right,” Dr. Tronosky says. “But you _still_ need to relax your gaze. You’re making it all too easy to see what I need to protect. You’re like a laser, focused on a single point. Precision is important, but so is adaptability.”

Adaptability is apparently something that doesn’t want to come easily to Tucker today, as his sword goes sailing across the room once more five minutes later. “Fuck! This is so _stupid!_ Why are we even _sword fighting_ anyway? No one else even has a sword like mine!”

“Agent Carolina seems to think it a wise idea,” Dr. Tronosky says, retrieving Tucker’s sword with a weary sigh. “Also, you don’t know for a fact that your sword is the only one of its kind.”

“Uh, yes I _do_.”

“No you— _regardless,_ ” Dr. Tronosky continues, determined, “while it’s important to train with that sword in a variety of situations, learning how to use it against its twin _first_ is a good starting point.”

“It’s a _stupid_ starting point.”

For a moment, Tucker thinks he’s finally pushed Dr. Tronosky to the breaking point, and feels a vindictive flair of triumph. But the doctor only sighs, sets both swords carefully on the floor, and turns to Tucker. “What’s this about?”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “What’s _what_ about?”

“Well,” Dr. Tronosky says slowly, “you seem extremely frustrated for someone who is picking this up rather quickly.”

Tucker blinks. “I am?”

“You are. It’s clear that you already had some talent to begin with, and your footwork has improved markedly in only a week. I think you’re being a little hard on yourself. You seem to be the type of person who strives for perfection—”

“Uh, okay _one_ , I don’t need you to like, tell me about myself. _Two,_ you’re way off. I don’t give a shit about being perfect.”

Dr. Tronosky’s expression is one of polite disbelief, but he merely shrugs and holds out Tucker’s word. “Alright, then. Why don’t we—”

Tucker doesn’t take the sword. “Seriously, I’m _not_ a perfectionist. Carolina is a perfectionist. Wash is a perfectionist. Not me. I like, don’t _actually_ care about any of this. This training stuff.”

“There’s nothing wrong with caring, Tucker.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Would you prefer I call you by your first name?”

“Oh my _God,_ ” Tucker groans. He snatches the sword out of Dr. Tronosky’s hand. “Can we just finish this? For all I know, Carolina’s gonna make me go through some kind of fucking _test_ to see if I can go on this mission or not.”

“So it’s about the mission, then.”

“It’s about _every_ mission!” Tucker snaps. He turns away, beginning to move through one of the katas Carolina taught him to soothe some of the nervous energy buzzing in his limbs. “It’s literally about _every_ fucking mission and about me not sucking. Because if I continue to suck, then they could grab Wash again. Or Caboose. Or Grif. Or one of these fifteen-year-olds. Or me! Or anyone!”

Dr. Tronosky is silent for nearly a minute, watching Tucker move through the kata. “Do you think it’s your fault? What happened to Agent Washington?”

“For fuck’s _sake_ —” Tucker whirls back around. “Dude, we are _not_ friends, and you are _not_ my therapist, and I am _not_ talking to you about this.”

“I know that,” Dr. Tronosky says. “I don’t mean to pry, I just—I think you should talk to _someone._ Emily, perhaps.”

“ _Ugh,_ don’t call her Emily.”

Dr. Tronosky looks at him, exasperated. “Perhaps you should talk to _Dr. Grey_. You—well, if I may speak frankly, you seem exhausted.”

“I don’t need to talk to anyone. I’m not exhausted. I’m f—look. I just don’t need to talk to anyone. Okay? Can we drop this now? Please?”

Dr. Tronosky looks as if he has another thing or two—or _twenty_ —to say, but he merely raises his sword with a sigh. The first _CLACK_ of their wooden swords is endless inside Tucker’s head and he lets the sound reverberate on and on inside his bones until there is nothing else in the world except their song.

* * *

Tucker limps into the mess hall two hours later, exhausted and sweaty and certain that he never wants to pick up another sword, _ever._ Dr. Tronosky had insisted that the training session had been productive, but Tucker isn’t convinced.

Tucker grabs some water, piles as much food as he can get away with on a tray, and throws himself into a chair across from where Sarge and Grif are both engrossed in something on their datapads. Sarge eyes him, unimpressed, as Tucker begins shoveling food into his mouth with unbridled enthusiasm. “Trust a dirty blue to come into the mess hall after training without showering first!”

“Food _first_ ,” Tucker mumbles around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “Shower _after_.”

“Bar _baric_.”

Tucker fixes him with a long-suffering stare. “But I’m _starving_.”

Sarge grunts, turning back to his datapad. “Sounds like you need to suck it up, blue! Why, the wonder surgeon over there looks as if he could go another ten rounds!”

Tucker glances several tables over to where Dr. Tronosky and Dr. Grey are standing, pouring over some complicated looking charts and chatting animatedly. Not _only_ does Dr. Tronosky look as if he could go another ten rounds, but he’s freshly showered without a single mark on him, unlike the bruises and cuts that are now all over Tucker’s arms from that stupid sword. “Ugh. What the fuck is he _doing_ here?”

“Eating, probably,” Grif says. “Geez, why are you so _whiny_ lately?”

“Shut the fuck up, Grif,” Tucker snaps.

“ _Both_ of you shut up. Can’t you see a man’s trying to concentrate here? Quit your belly-achin’! Perhaps we should give the doctor a medal for not beating you to death with that wooden sword!”

Tucker frowns. “Why am I the _only_ one who can’t stand this guy?”

“Good question,” Sarge grunts.

Tucker opens his mouth to reply, but is distracted by Dr. Grey letting out a shriek of laughter from across the room. Dr. Tronosky is laughing too, head thrown back, and Tucker folds his arms and glares at Sarge. “You know those two used to fuck, right?”

Sarge doesn’t even glance up from his work. “’Course they did! Emmy has a healthy sexual appetite, and she likes a man who knows how to use his hands, so—”

“ _Jesus_ Christ.”

“—so why wouldn’t they?”

Tucker folds his arms and huffs, glaring at Dr. Tronosky and Dr. Grey. “I’m just _saying_. I can feel the sexual tension from all the way over here.”

Sarge finally looks up at him then, before squinting at Dr. Tronosky and Dr. Grey. He stands slowly, cracks his back, and claps Tucker on the shoulder. “Son,” he says sympathetically, “you’ve got a _lot_ to learn.”

Tucker gapes at him as he saunters across the mess hall, brushing a hand across the small of Dr. Grey’s back as a greeting. He props his other elbow up on Dr. Tronosky’s shoulder and gestures at something on his datapad, and before long the three of them are in animated conversation.

“Oh my God,” Tucker says. “I think I just facilitated a threesome.”

There’s a loud sputtering noise behind him, and Tucker turns to see Simmons choking on nothing but his own spit, and a sympathetic Donut patting him on the back. Grif glances up from his datapad, rolls his eyes, and goes back to the game his was playing.

“ _What_ did you just say?” Simmons gasps, slapping his chest.

Tucker gestures. “A threesome! Between the fucking _Wonder Squad_ over there. Look!”

“Weak,” Grif says, finally tossing his datapad aside. “We can do better than Wonder Squad. We need something medical, like…like the Triage Team!”

Donut snaps his fingers. “The Triage _Triad!_ ”

They high-five over a blushing Simmons. “You guys are _ridiculous_.”

“You know, I don’t know why you sound so disappointed, Tucker,” Donut muses, observing the three of them with interest. Dr. Grey is now pressed up on the other side of Tronosky, chewing obscenely on her tablet pen. “Never thought _you’d_ be upset that you helped enable a threesome!”

Tucker grunts, irritated, but all he says is, “Maybe we need another betting pool. One that I can actually be in on this time.”

“That’s all you dude,” Grif says. “I don’t want to think too closely on what Sarge does in his spare time.”

“We _already_ know too much,” Simmons says, and they both shudder in unison.

* * *

It takes another few days for Tucker to realize that his new betting pool about the projected threesome between the Triage Triad isn’t the only one circulating. He isn’t sure quite how it happened, but somehow his training sessions with Dr. Tronosky had become a subject of very focused interest for the entire base. Every time they got their swords out, the training room mysteriously filled with people, News and Feds alike. Tucker had enjoyed putting on a show at first—rolling his eyes, making snarky comments to solicit a laugh—but he really _did_ want to get better at this stuff. He can’t be certain, but he thinks that there’s yet _another_ betting pool going on, about whether Tucker or Dr. Tronosky is going to back out of the training sessions first.

Which mean that Tucker _can’t_ cave.

He makes his way back to his room one day after a particularly grueling session, flops on his bed, and begins unlacing his boots in the most aggressive manner he can muster. “Gonna show them,” he mutters, yanking a boot off and throwing it across the room. “Gonna—”

“Hey.”

Tucker almost falls off the bed at the sound of Wash’s voice. He turns to see Wash leaning against his doorframe, arms folded tightly across his chest. It isn’t as if he hasn’t _seen_ Wash over the past week, but he certainly hasn’t seen him like _this_ , in his room, just the two of them. Tucker decides after a moment of deliberation that the best thing to do is act completely normal, and he offers Wash a grin. “Hey.”

Wash’s face softens further at the smile on Tucker’s face, a bit of the nervous tension leaving his shoulders. “How was training?”

“Ugh.” Tucker balls up his shirt and tosses it in the corner, the smile vanishing from his face immediately. “It fucking _sucked._ Your friend is a tool.”

Wash bites back a grin of his own. “It sounds to me like he’s rather impressed with your raw talent.”

Tucker grunts. “Whatever.”

“ _Also,_ ” Wash adds, “it sounds to me as if you’re improving more and more each day.”

Which is, of course, the part that _sucks_. “Well, I guess he’s just _that_ good of a teacher. Good for him.”

Wash tilts his head to the side. “You don’t like him.”

“What gave it away?” Tucker asks sarcastically.

“Your impressive subtlety, of course,” Wash deadpans.  He steps into Tucker’s room, pulling the door shut. “You do know he helped save my life.”

“ _Yeah_ , after he rolled in with no warning and made you panic! Funny how everyone seems to have forgotten that part!”

“He hardly knew what he was walking into.”

“Whatever,” Tucker groans. “I just wish everyone would stop acting as if that didn’t _happen,_ is all. Also, he’s _annoying._ And pretentious. Did you just come in here to lecture me on what a good person Alexander the Architect is?”

Wash snorts. “No. I didn’t, actually.”

“Well, good, because I _really_ don’t care….”

Tucker pauses as Wash walks over to him. It wouldn’t be particularly noteworthy except for the fact that Wash is crossing the room as if he’s walking the plank, each step measured and deliberate. He hesitates just in front of Tucker, who has frozen with his other boot in his hands. A tingle runs through him as Wash tucks a few of his dreads behind his shoulder, brushes the fingers of his other hand across Tucker’s cheek, and bends down to place a hand on either side of Tucker’s waist. Their faces are only inches apart, and Tucker swallows hard. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Wash says, even as he leans down to plant an innocent kiss on the corner of Tucker’s jaw.

“Nothing,” Tucker repeats incredulously, as Wash trails his lips down to Tucker’s neck, then to his collarbone, then to the base on his throat. The kisses are growing less innocent by the second, and the boot falls limply from Tucker’s hands. “This— _hngh_ —doesn’t seem like nothing—”

Wash kisses him, a soft press of his lips against Tucker’s, and Tucker wants to _cry_ it feels so good. He responds immediately, one hand coming up to cup the side of Wash’s jaw. The kiss is long and slow, familiar in all the best ways, sending little shivers up and down his spine. He loses himself in the sensation, everything in his body aching for the closeness so long denied them both. Tucker curls his other hand in Wash’s shirt and hardly notices when Wash pushes him gently down to the bed. It’s all too easy to settle underneath him, tangling their legs together in that comfortable way they’ve found, all too easy to grind his hips up against Wash’s, all too easy to wind a hand in his hair and _tug_ —

Wash inhales sharply at the motion, pressing his forehead into Tucker’s neck, but the way his breath trembles hrad against the pulse of Tucker’s throat clears some of the fog in Tucker’s head. “Wash,” he pants, capturing Wash’s face between his hands. “Wait. Are you sure—we don’t have to—”

Before Tucker can say anything more, Wash flips them so that Tucker’s on top. He wraps his legs around Tucker’s waist and pulls him down for a kiss, and Tucker goes automatically. His body is already responding to Wash’s, breath stuttering, hips rolling down into his, hands hot and desperate on Wash’s skin. Tucker’s thoughts start to shake apart as Wash drags his teeth down the shell of Tucker’s ear, and _maybe_ this is okay, _maybe_ this is just what Wash needs, _maybe_ he should just go along with it.

“ _Tucker_ ,” Wash breathes into his ear, and Tucker positively _shivers_ in delight, “do you still have that rope?”

It’s as if a bucket of cold water has been thrown over his head. Tucker pulls back just enough to look at Wash, eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“The rope,” Wash repeats. His hands are still running up and down the skin of Tucker’s bare back where his shirt has ridden up, and it’s making it hard to focus, but Tucker forces himself to stay present. “I thought we could use it.”

“Are you kidding?” Tucker blurts before he can think of a more tactful way to phrase it. “Dude, no _way_.”

Wash frowns at him, some of the heat cooling in his eyes. “Why not?”

“What—” Tucker reaches for one of Wash’s hands, dragging it up between them. “How about _this_ is why not?”

He runs a thumb over the still-healing scars on Wash’s wrist where he was restrained in the hospital, and Wash’s eyes narrow. “Don’t worry about that. I’m fine.”

“Wash,” Tucker says slowly, “you just spent nearly a month tied to a fucking hospital bed, and now you want me to _tie you up so we can have sex?”_

“That’s different.”

“I know it is, but— _Jesus,_ Wash, it hasn’t even been two _weeks_ yet.”

This is the part, Tucker knows, where Wash’s eyes would fill with hurt, and his face would flush with embarrassment, and Tucker would have to stop him from leaving and reassure him that he _did_ want him, that they just needed to go _slow,_ that—

But instead, Wash just gives a little shrug, says, “Okay,” and resumes kissing him.

The warning bells in Tucker’s head grow louder, and he turns his head to the side, “Wash….”

“I’m fine,” Wash says. “Really, I am…”

Tucker hesitates, but Wash starts kissing him again and Tucker slips all too easily into the sensations. There’s a new desperation in Wash’s movements underneath him, and although this does nothing to ease his mind, his body has other plans. He kisses Wash back, biting at his lip and licking along the shell of his ear and sucking at the skin of his throat—

Wash gasps when he feels Tucker’s teeth on his throat, everything in his body tensing as he winds his fists into the sheets below him. A shudder runs through him, and Tucker realizes too late that he’s kissing the same spot where he saw that hickey on Wash’s neck in the video, the hickey that Wash has yet to so much as _mention_.

“Okay,” Tucker says, pulling back abruptly. “We’re stopping. You’re pushing yourself.”

“No, I’m _not_ ,” Wash says, and when he reaches for Tucker again, Tucker intercepts his hand.

“ _Wash._ You’re shaking.”

“I always shake.”

“Not like _this_ ,” Tucker insists. He runs a hand through Wash’s hair. “Dude, it’s _fine._ Just give it a little time.”

“I don’t _want_ to give it time,” Wash insists. “I want _you._ ”

He pulls Tucker down towards him again, but not before he hears the little catch in Wash’s throat, and he just _can’t quite be sure_ what it means, and that’s just about enough for Tucker. “Wash—stop— _red,_ ” he blurts, just before their lips meet. “ _Red._ ”

Wash jerks back immediately this time, looking horrified. “Did I hurt you?”

Tucker scrambles to a sit, yanking back his dreads, shoving down the memories that that word dragged to the surface. “What? _No!_ Wash, Jesus Christ—look at you! You’re pushing yourself! We’re not fucking doing this!”

Wash sits up now too, and there it is, the hurt in his eyes that Tucker was expecting. “I’m _not_ pushing myself. I know what I can handle—”

“Do you?” Tucker interrupts. “Because it looks to me like you’re barely handling _this._ ”

The embarrassed flush is there now, too. “I’m fine,” he snaps. “I just—I just need to push _through_ it—”

Panic and unexpected hurt lances through Tucker, and he pushes off the bed to his feet, hands balled into fists. “You _promised_.”

Wash blinks. “What?”

“When you first brought out the rope. You promised me you wouldn’t push yourself, you promised me you wouldn’t make me do anything that made you panic!”

“I— _Tucker_ , I wouldn’t do that!”

Tucker gestures angrily. “You just fucking _did!_ ”

Wash sets his jaw. “I _told_ you, I know what I can handle.”

“So do I,” snaps Tucker. “ _I_ know what you can handle. I know when to push you, and right now, this isn’t that time.”

Wash busies himself by attempting to flatten his hair with a hand and doesn’t answer right away. When he does speak, the words are quiet and confused. “I thought you wanted this.”

Tucker stares at him. “Wanted _what?_ ”

“This.” Wash gestures awkwardly at absolutely nothing, and sighs when Tucker clearly doesn’t grasp what he’s trying to say. “I—I thought it was upsetting you that I wasn’t showing any affection, and I just wanted you to know that I still…still want to be whatever we are—”

“Stop,” Tucker says, and there must be something in his voice or on his face because Wash _does_ stop, everything in him going still. “ _Tell_ me you haven’t been walking around here thinking that I was upset because we weren’t fucking.”

“ _No_ —that’s not—”

“Tell me,” Tucker continues, low and desperate. “Tell me that you don’t think that little of me.”

“I don’t!” Wash exclaims. He bites his lip, hard. “Tucker, I don’t, that wasn’t—that’s not what I meant, I _swear_.”

The sheer panic in his voice softens some of the hurt, and Tucker takes a breath. “Then explain it to me, Wash.”

“I just…” Wash closes his eyes briefly. “I just wanted you to show you that I still want to be here. With…with you.”

Tucker tries not to let the anger show in his voice, but he doesn’t think he’s very successful. “So you thought the best way to show that was by jumping my bones?”

“Well…I mean…”

“I want you to fucking _talk_ to me! That’s what I want! You can jump my bones _later!_ For fuck’s sake, Wash!”

“How many times,” Wash grits out, “do I have to tell you that I’m fine?”

“Oh my God.” Tucker turns away with a groan, hands tugging at his hair. “Wash, I can’t fucking do this anymore. I can’t pretend that everything is fine when it’s _not_ —”

“No, what you _want_ is for me to talk about things that _I don’t want to talk about!”_

“That’s not what I want!” Tucker snaps. “Shit dude, I’m not gonna force you to like, write me a fucking book about it! I just—I can’t act like nothing happened, when it did! I can’t just bang you like nothing’s different! I can’t pretend that I didn’t see that fucking hickey on your neck or those handprints—”

Tucker cuts himself off so abruptly that he sputters a little, but it’s too late. Wash’s eyes widen for the briefest of seconds before he wipes his face clean of emotion, and pushes himself to a stand. “I see,” he says, and it’s _awful,_ the ice in his voice, like Tucker’s a _stranger_ he wants nothing to do with. “So that’s what this is about.”

“No— _Wash_ —”

“You don’t want me anymore,” Wash says, still in that same horribly cold voice, “because you think I’m some sort of damaged goods now. I see.”

The wind kicks out of Tucker so suddenly that he gasps a little in his attempt to find some air, to find some steady footing on this tenuous ground. “Wash,” he breathes, heart bending and twisting in his chest, because that’s not it, that’s not it at _all,_ how could Wash have it so wrong when _Tucker_ is the one who— “Wash, _no,_ that’s not it— _please_ —”

But Wash is moving now, whipping away from Tucker. Tucker tries to catch his elbow on the way out, but Wash shrugs him off as he goes. He slams the door on his way out, and Tucker stands frozen in the middle of his room, shaking like a leaf and trying to steady himself.

He stays there for a while, waits until his heart has stopped hammering so loudly that he can practically hear it, and stalks out of his room as well, slamming the door as he goes.

* * *

 

Tucker’s thoughts are loose, scattered things, errant thoughts floating across a brain that feels too big. He doesn’t even realize where he’s going until he blinks and finds himself in Red Team’s hallway. Tucker knocks on Grif’s door and shoves it open before he can really process the tentative murmur of ascent that comes from within. “Okay, so I know you really don’t wanna hear about this, but—”

He comes up short a few feet inside the doorway, blinking. Grif is nowhere to be seen, but Simmons is seated on his bed, back propped up against the wall and an actual fucking paperback _book_ in his hands. “Oh, um, hi. Hey, Tucker.”

“Uh…hey.” Tucker blinks, momentarily distracted by the fact that Simmons is not only out of armor, but he’s in his _pajamas,_ before he rallies. “Uh, sorry. Any idea where Grif is?”

“Of course not,” Simmons says, instantly defensive. “Why would I have any idea where the fuck Grif is?”

“How about because you’re in his _bedroom_ —you know what, never mind. Just—sorry.”

“Are you about to faint?”

Tucker pauses on his way back to the door and turns to stare at Simmons. “What?”

“It’s just, you.” Simmons shrugs, bookmarking his page carefully. “You don’t look so good.”

“I’m—just tired,” Tucker says automatically. Half of him is pleased that he was able to be so very honest and not lie and say that he’s fine. The other part thinks his _“I’m tired”_ is becoming the equivalent to Wash’s _“I’m fine.”_

“ _Riiiiight_ ,” Simmons says suspiciously. “You look like shit, though.”

“What the fuck do you want me to say?” Tucker snaps. “Do you _want_ me to talk about my sex life with Wash to you? Because, like. That’s why I’m here.

“What—of _course_ I don’t! And Grif probably doesn’t, either!”

“Whatever, Simmons—”

“Maybe you should go see Dr. Grey.”

Tucker stops. “Wait, what?”

Simmons rolls his eyes. “I _said_ , instead of talking to Grif about your sex life, maybe you should talk to Dr. Grey instead. Grif is probably not the best person to discuss your issues with, whatever they may be. I’m just saying.”

“My sex life is _awesome_. I don’t need to talk to Dr. Grey about it.”

“Ugh.” Simmons eyes him distastefully. “Can you leave now?”

“Yeah yeah, whatever….” Tucker pauses. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“I guess…”

“It sucked when Wash was gone, right?”

“Uh….yeah?”

Tucker nods. “So like, if that happened to one of your annoying teammates, you’d wanna talk about it. Right?”

“No.”

“No?”

Simmons rolls his eyes so hugely that Tucker feels slightly offended. “This wouldn’t happen to one of my teammates.”

“Oh, _please_ —”

“—because _our_ lives are not rife with drama and—”

“—such Red Team _bullshit_ —”

“You’re all dumb,” Simmons says. “You’re all _really_ fucking dumb, and I’m just saying. You should talk to Grey. “

“I’m not talking to Grey.”

“Fine.”

“Whatever.”

“Oh my God, shut up.”

Simmons throws a pillow at him on his way out and Tucker rolls his eyes, storming off once more.

* * *

After much internal debate, Tucker skulks down the hallway to Dr. Grey’s office, throwing out furtive glances left and right. No one is paying him the slightest bit of attention, but he still rapidly backtracks once reaching her door. This is stupid. He doesn’t need to talk to Dr. Grey. He doesn’t need to talk to anyone—

He jolts forward so purposefully once more than he knocks a heavy ceramic bust of some stupid General right off the shelf. It doesn’t shatter, but the noise it makes is tremendous, and well, if no one was looking at him before, they sure were now. Tucker heaves the thing back up on the shelf and spends another five minutes inching down the hallway to Dr. Grey’s door. Inching and backtracking. Inching and—

By the time he flings the door open, Dr. Grey is already leaning back in her chair, arms crossed expectantly. “He’s not here,” Dr. Grey says as Tucker glances around her office suspiciously. She looks if she is avoiding rolling her eyes with supreme difficulty. “Alexander is checking on some of our other patients.”

“Whatever,” Tucker says. He yanks out a chair and throws himself into it, propping his feet up on her desk. “So, _Wash_ —”

She leans forward and bats at his feet until he takes them off her desk. “Goodness, you _are_ in a state.”

“He tried to bang me,” Tucker blurts, with no preamble. “Just now.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “So then, why aren’t you cuddled up somewhere with him?”

Tucker stares at her, thinking for one wild moment that she’s joking, but she merely looks confused and a little surprised. “ _Because he tried to bang me_ ,” Tucker emphasizes. “Like, he got _all_ up on me and—”

“I heard you.” Dr. Grey smooths out the papers on her desk and leans forward, hands clasped. “My question is the same.”

“Because—because—” Tucker gestures wildly, as if there’s something in the room that might help explain his level of agitation. “Because he’s not _ready_ for that!”

“Did he tell you that?” Dr. Grey asks. “Or are you just assuming?”

Tucker frowns, but she doesn’t sound accusatory, merely curious. “Well, he didn’t—I’m just—it’s _obvious_ —look, he was chained to a fucking hospital bed for over three weeks!”

“Yes,” Dr. Grey says calmly, “which is why—”

“And like, the first thing he does is ask me to tie him up?”

Dr. Grey pauses. “Is that…something the two of you have done before while intimate?”

“Yes,” Tucker says, “and it was super fucking hot too. You want details?”

Dr. Grey does roll her eyes this time. “Interesting,” she says. “Tucker, I think if Wash is telling you what he wants, particularly in such an intimate setting, you should listen to him.”

“He _didn’t_ tell me what he wants,” Tucker says firmly, “because he’s fucking incapable of asking for it.”

She tilts her head. “What do you mean?”

“It’s…” Tucker pauses, thinking. “It’s a _thing_ I’ve noticed. When he wants something—like, if it’s a nap or sex or like, an extra fucking cup of coffee, he won’t _ask for it_. Like he literally won’t say the words! _I want this_ , or _I need that._ Only when…”

“Only when…?”

“Only when…” he struggles with his words, unsure of why he suddenly feels so shy. “Only when I, well, when I push him.”

“You mean, when you’re being intimate. When you’re using the rope.”

“Yeah,” Tucker says slowly. “Yeah. Exactly. He—he—it’s the only time that he—that he really _lets_ me take care of him without protesting.”

The words bring an unexpected lump to his throat, and Tucker grabs a pen out of the mug on her desk for something to fiddle with. “And even then, I have to like, work him up to that point. Get him in that _state,_ or whatever. He won’t just _tell_ me what he _wants_.”

“But he did now,” Dr. Grey says, “and you turned him away.”

Tucker opens his mouth, then pauses, guilt worming through him. “No, he didn’t! I just _told_ you, he didn’t _say_ those words. _I want._ He just keeps saying _I’m fine, I’m fine, don’t worry about me,_ but he doesn’t actually say like _, I want this._ He never has. Even when he first told me he wanted me to tie him up, he like, dropped the fucking rope in my lap and looked at me expectantly.”

“A big step for him, I’m sure.”

“I know,” Tucker says. “No, I _know_ that, and I’m not like…downplaying it. It’s just—he won’t tell me what he wants, and it fucking _bothers me._ ”

“Tucker,” Dr. Grey says, “I understand what you’re saying, and why that is such an important distinction for you. It’s quite impressive that you are so sensitive to it. But I’m—well, I’m confused why you aren’t having such an important conversation with _Wash_.”

Tucker struggles before dropping the pen on her desk and propping his chin up in his hands. “I don’t know.”

“I think,” she says, “that this conversation about language is a very important one. You have obviously talked about safe words—”

“How do you know that?” he asks, surprised.

“Red,” she says simply. “I was there, remember? On your datapad.”

“Oh,” Tucker says, and when he finds himself at a loss for further words, he merely looks at her expectantly.

“So language is something that’s very important to you, and something that Wash is still learning how to use. Tucker—you have to talk about this with Wash, about the importance of him verbalizing what he wants. Tell him what you told me. In the meantime, you must realize that these little moments for Wash—dropping that rope in your lap, trying to initiate sex after a trauma—for him, these are _big_ moments, and you should listen to him.”

Tucker sighs. “So, what, I should’ve just fucked him? When he’s not ready? How do I know he really wants to have sex because he wants to have sex? And it’s just not like, response to a trauma?”

“That’s…very astute, Tucker.”

Tucker shrugs. “Had some experience with that myself, so. You know.”

Dr. Grey waits, presumably to see if he’s going to elaborate, but continues when Tucker remains pointedly silent. “All I’m saying,” she says, “is that you don’t need to jump right into sex. You can keep things…PG-rated, if you will, while you both get more comfortable with the way things have changed in both of your lives.”

Tucker stares at her. “So…so we could’ve just made out?”

“You certainly could have. If you were both comfortable with that, of course.”

Tucker groans, dropping his forehead down on her desk with a _thunk._ Now that he thinks about it, it seems like this is the obvious thing he should’ve done. “Aww, fuck me…”

“Just ease into it,” Dr. Grey says. She taps on his head, and he turns his head to the side to look at her. “Baby steps. And _talking_. Talking is so very important right now. You can’t expect Wash to talk to you if you aren’t willing to reciprocate. I’m sure he would have understood if you told him your concerns.”

“I….okay, so what you’re saying is maybe I shouldn’t have told him he was crazy when I saw where his mind was heading.”

Dr. Grey gives him a look. “Perhaps not the wisest course of action, Tucker. This sort of thing is a big deal for Wash.”

“It’s just…I just don’t see how he can really be okay to fuck just yet, you know?”

“Tucker,” Dr. Grey says gently. “It’s okay if _you_ aren’t ready, you know. If that’s the case, then we need to be having an entirely different conversation.”

He jerks his head back up from the desk, frowning at her. “What?”

“It would be perfectly understandable if you weren’t ready to be intimate. You just need to communicate that to him. Otherwise, he’s _probably_ going to think he did something wrong.”

 “It’s just…he…” Tucker clenches his jaw and takes a few moments to get his emotions under control before he continues. “He _still_ hasn’t talked to me about that hickey.”

He looks up quickly at Dr. Grey, hoping to see confusion on her face, but he can tell by her carefully blank expression that she knows _exactly_ what he’s talking about. “On his neck,” Tucker says anyway. “On that fucking video.”

“I know what you’re referring to, Tucker.”

Tucker fidgets. “He hasn’t talked to me about it,” he says again. “Like, at all.”

“I see.”

Tucker squints at her suspiciously. “Wait, has he talked to you about this?”

“You know I’m not discussing Wash’s private sessions with you.”

Tucker huffs. “Well, how else am I supposed to find out what the fuck happened?”

She cocks an eyebrow. “Have you tried asking him?”

“Well, no…not…exactly.”

Dr. Grey squints at him. “What does that mean, _not exactly?_ ”

“I kind of…let it slip that I saw it, just now.” Tucker winces. “And he kind of freaked out. Thinks I don’t want him or some bullshit.”

“You need to go and tell him that that’s not the case. You need to _tell him_ how much that upset you—”

“I don’t want to panic him!”

“So you’d prefer to panic yourself?”

“If it means Wash doesn’t have to? Then fuck yeah. That’s not even a question.”

Dr. Grey sighs. “Tucker, while that’s an admirable sentiment, it’s not exactly a healthy one. You must communicate with Wash about things that are upsetting _you_. This isn’t just about him.”

“Yes, it is.”

“ _No_ ,” she says firmly. “No, it isn’t. To have the person you love most taken right in front of you—to be unsure of what was happening to him, or if he was alive or dead—you were under an _enormous_ amount of stress. It was nothing short of traumatizing.”

“They put stuff in his _head,_ ” Tucker says through gritted teeth. “I just—I _want_ to talk, but I don’t want to make him talk about things that are gonna upset him. You know?”

“You don’t have to,” Dr. Grey says patiently. “If he tells you he doesn’t want to discuss it just yet, then respect that, but…Tucker, you have to talk to him about the things that are upsetting _you._ Tell him what _you_ went through. Tell him about _your_ trauma. It may open the doorway for him to talk about his own.”

“I just…” Tucker finds the pen again and clicks it rapidly against the desk a few times. “Whenever I think about what they did to him, I want to go _crazy_. And when you add in that fucking hickey…like, what the fuck am I supposed to think?! And then he wants to have sex and like, the whole time I’m gonna be wondering if—if I _touched_ him the same way, or—”

He breaks off, shoving out of his chair and pacing Dr. Grey’s office, forcing himself to take calming breaths. “He called himself damaged goods,” Tucker says abruptly. “He—he actually _called_ himself that. That’s what he thinks I see now, when I looks at him. And it’s fucking _stupid._ It’s _so_ stupid, when I—because—like, that’s what he should be calling _me_ and instead he’s blaming _himself_ when it’s my fault—”

“Why would you say that?”

Tucker falters in his pacing. “Why would I say what?”

Dr. Grey’s sitting up a little straighter in her seat, eyes boring into his own. “Why would you call _yourself_ damaged goods? Why would you say that _any_ of this is your fault?”

“Because I—because I—I didn’t mean…” Tucker turns away, unable to bear the look on her face, as if she’s just figured something out. “Forget it.”

“Tucker,” Dr. Grey says after a moment. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Tucker closes his eyes. There’s a loose, scattered feeling inside his chest, as if all the pieces of him are going to break away at any moment, ripping him open, exposing all the ugliness instead for everyone to see. He waits until he he’s confident he can speak without his voice trembling before speaking. “He shouldn’t call himself damaged goods,” he says evenly, “when he didn’t _want_ any of that to happen to him. It wasn’t his fault. He fought and he tried and he wasn’t—wasn’t _stupid_ and didn’t trust the wrong fucking _person_ and—he just shouldn’t _say_ that, about himself.”

“But you _should_ call yourself that? Because you put your trust in the wrong person?”

“No, I—” Tucker takes a deep breath, opening his eyes. “That’s not what I said. Look, this is stupid.”

It’s the part where he should leave. Tucker knows that. He knows that he should leave, _now_ , but he can’t bring himself to make his feet do what he wants. His feet _are_ moving, but they are carrying him back to the chair in front of Dr. Grey’s desk, they are forcing him to sit, his hands are folding tightly in his lap and his mouth is moving, words spilling from his lips— “I’m scared it might be my fault.”

Dr. Grey is staring at him hard, and he can practically _see_ her trying to put the pieces together. “Tucker, you’re scared that _what_ might be your fault?”

“If he did—if Felix did—” he can’t bring himself to say the words, _rape assault force_ , so he gestures at his own neck instead— “If he did _that,_ then….I think it might have been because—because he knew I’d see that video and go nuts.”

“What makes you so sure it was Felix?”

Tucker blinks. It hadn’t even occurred to him that it would be someone else, and he shakes his head. “It was Felix. I’m _sure_ of it. It’s—it’s his _thing._ He gets off on that sort of shit—controlling people, _manipulating_ them—”

He cuts himself off, but Dr. Grey’s eyes finally light up in understanding, and Tucker finds himself torn between relief and apprehension. “Am I to understand,” she says slowly, “that you had sexual relations with Felix in the past?”

“Ugh!” Tucker throws up his hands. “No one calls it that, Grey!”

“Because if you did,” she continues, “then it’s certainly nothing for you to feel ashamed over.”

“Whatever,” Tucker grunts, pushing to his feet.

“No,” she says, sharper than he’s heard yet. “ _Not_ whatever. You— _Lavernius Tucker, you sit right back down in that chair and you listen to me!_ That man was manipulating an _entire_ army. He and Locus fooled multiple generals and leaders for _years_. You and your friends were dropped into the middle of a conflict you knew _nothing_ about and were ripped apart from each other in the most violent way possible.”

“I should have been paying more attention,” Tucker mutters. “I should’ve—should’ve spent every _minute_ trying to find them, and instead I was _fucking around_ —”

“Seeking _comfort,_ ” she says firmly. “You were seeking a bit of comfort in horribly dark time—”

“I was seeking _sex_ ,” he snaps. “Don’t—don’t make it out to be some sort of _noble_ —”

“Why can’t sex be comfort?” she challenges. “It can. It _is._ Tucker, _you have nothing to be ashamed of_.”

“He _knew_ ,” Tucker says abruptly. He clenches his jaw hard, fighting back the sudden prickling behind his eyes. “I think he _knew,_ before I did, that I had a thing for Wash. I was going _crazy_ wondering what they were doing to him and I—I gave too much away, and he fucking _knew_ and….I can’t stand it, okay? I can’t fucking stand thinking that some of what happened to him this time was _my fault_.”

“It _wasn’t_.”

“You don’t _know that_.”

“Yes I do,” Dr. Grey says firmly. “Tucker, what they were planning to do to Wash—what they were trying to force him to do—”

“I know there’s _other_ shit that went down,” Tucker says quickly. “I know they fucked around in his head and shit, that was probably way more fucking traumatic, but—I can’t unsee that goddamn hickey and stop thinking it wasn’t my fault.”

“It makes sense that you would focus on the evidence of his physical damage,” Dr. Grey says. “A mark on his skin—that’s something you can see, something you can try to understand. What happened to Wash mentally is more difficult to internalize, particularly if he isn’t _talking_ to you about it. Don’t beat yourself up for trying to make sense of his trauma, particularly the part of it you relate to the most. Particularly the part that’s your trauma, too.”

“So…so…” Tucker rubs his forehead. His head is spinning. “So what are you saying? What does this mean?”

“What I’m _saying,”_ Dr. Grey says with a sympathetic smile, “is that you must talk to Wash about all of this.”

Tucker drops back into his chair, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. “Oh my God, why does this have to be so _complicated?_ ”

“Because that’s _love_ ,” Dr. Grey says softly.

Tucker looks at her with a sigh. “I thought love was supposed to be simple.”

She shrugs. “Sometimes it is. Sometimes it’s the simplest thing in the world. Sometimes, it’s complicated. Healing—healing is almost _always_ complicated, Tucker. And Wash has a lot of healing left to do. So do you.”

“It’s not the same,” Tucker mutters. “It’s not the same at all.”

Dr. Grey leans forward, patting his hand with her own. “ _Exactly,_ Tucker.”

Tucker nods, shoving his chair back to a stand. “Alright, alright, _alright_. Fucking hell. I’ll go talk to him.”

“I’m glad,” she says with a smile. “Tucker…Wash is very lucky to have someone like you in his corner.  You do know that, right?”

He shrugs. “I guess.”

“Don’t guess,” she says firmly. “ _Know_ it. Believe it, because it’s true. You hear me?”

Tucker nods this time. “Thanks. For, uh…just thanks.”

She waves a hand at the door. “Go on, go on. Go talk to him.”

“Right,” Tucker says, and turns on his heel to go.

* * *

 

There’s a part of Tucker that knows he’d be better of waiting a few hours—hell, maybe even waiting a few days—before finding Wash. But now that he’s made the decision to try to talk about what they both went through, the thought of keeping the words inside him any longer is unbearable. They bounce off the walls of his skull, restless, half-formed things that Tucker tries to wrangle and rehearse as he marches towards Wash’s room. _I did a stupid thing I’m not proud of. Please don’t ever fucking call yourself damaged goods again. I think it might have been my fault that they—_

“Just fucking do it,” Tucker mutters at himself as he approaches Wash’s door, and before he can change his mind, he reaches out to knock.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me.”

There’s a long pause, and Tucker holds his breath, pressing his forehead against Wash’s door, waiting, waiting, waiting—

He jerks his head up, hardly daring to hope as he hears the unmistakable sounds of Wash climbing off the bed, walking over the door, and unlocking it. Tucker steps back as he opens it, heart sinking at the closed off expression on Wash’s face.

“Can we talk?”

Wash’s shoulders go rigid as his spine straightens, but he does step back to let Tucker into the room. He folds his arms across his chest and puts as much space between them as he can manage in the tiny space, but still, he lets him in, and Tucker tries to focus on that. “About what?”

Tucker fidgets in the doorway before entering the room and pulling the door shut behind him. “About…before.”

“Before,” Wash says. He unfolds his arms, swings them awkwardly, and refolds them. A blank, formal look steals across his face as he takes a breath. “Before. Right. Tucker, I shouldn’t have tried to push you to be intimate. It’s perfectly understandable that you wouldn’t want to…be intimate… after what—”

“Oh my God, _please_ stop,” Tucker interrupts. He hesitates before taking a few more steps into the room. “Wash, come on. Are we gonna have to have this conversation every time some shitty stuff happens?”

“What conversation?”

“The conversation where you think I’m gonna like, fuck off because I can’t handle it,” Tucker snaps. “The conversation where you think I’m gonna _leave_ and—”

“I don’t think you’re going to leave!” Wash protests, some of the flatness leaving his tone. “Tucker—all that time, I never stopped believing that you were coming for me. All of you.”

Tucker swallows hard, letting those words settle in before pushing forward. “But you think I don’t wanna bang you anymore.”

“Well, you just…” Wash gestures vaguely. “You didn’t want to, before.”

“Because you were pushing yourself” Tucker pauses, corrects himself. “Because _I thought_ you were trying to push yourself. I don’t—Jesus _Christ,_ Wash, you just went through hell, and from the sounds of it, you spent half that time tied to a fucking bed, and you expect me to…dude, the last time I held you down you were screaming your head off on that Pelican.”

“Oh,” Wash says after a pause. “I see.”

“I don’t want to freak you out,” Tucker says in a rush. “I don’t want to hurt you, or…make you panic or anything. I just…I don’t want…especially because…you know.”

“You can just say it, you know,” Wash says, that same stiff tone back in his voice. “You can tell me. You can tell me that you don’t want to _fuck me_ because you think that one of them did.”

Wash’s words hit him like a slap across the face, and Tucker jerks back. It’s as if everything that Dr. Grey just told him has been wiped clean from his mind, driven out by the way Wash is looking at him—or rather, not looking at him. He’s wearing the most awful, closed off expression, but even worse is the _shame_ hidden behind it. “ _Wash_ —”

“That’s _not_ what happened, you know,” Wash continues, hands clenching by his sides. “It didn’t get that far—”

“I don’t _care_ if it did!” Tucker exclaims. He takes a hesitant step towards Wash, but stops moving when he flinches away. “I mean, I care, but in like a, _I’m gonna rip Felix’s dick off through his mouth_ kind of way, not in like a, _you’re damaged goods_ kind of way—”

Wash laughs, bitter. “I didn’t say I disagreed with you.”

Tucker thinks he’s going to be sick. “Wash, _stop it_. Don’t call yourself that.”

“Why not?” Wash says viciously. “It—that was the point.  They wanted to put on a _show_ —make you guys do something stupid—”

 “Well, it fucking _worked!_ ” Tucker says. His face feels hot, and he presses his shaking palms to his temples. “I was going out of my goddamn _mind_ imagining what they were doing to you—”

“A pile of matchsticks. That’s what Felix called it,” Wash says, continuing as if Tucker hadn’t spoken. “They wanted to give you back something _broken._ ”

_“You’re not broken!”_

“If you think I don’t…don’t _hate_ myself for letting myself get in that situation…”

Wash’s voice doesn’t break, but he turns away abruptly, arms folding across his chest in a way that looks more as if he’s hugging himself. Tucker wants to go to him, wrap his arms tight around those hunched shoulders until all of the tension is leached out of them.  He can’t stand it, the way Wash is blaming himself, _hating_ himself, the way he’s pulling farther and farther away from Tucker with every passing second. Dr. Grey is right, they need to talk. He’d left her office feeling calm and centered and so sure of what he needed to say, but now his head is filled with nothing but panic. He has to make Wash understand, has to tell him he should _never_ call himself damaged goods ever again, because—

“I fucked him.”

Wash turns back around slowly, brow furrowing in confusion. Tucker forces himself not to turn away. “You—what?”

“Felix,” Tucker clarifies, his voice shaking with adrenaline or shame or fear or maybe a combination of all three. “I fucked him. Or he fucked—whatever. We, just. We fucked.”

Wash is staring, confusion melting into shock as he sits down heavily on the bed. He opens and closes his mouth several times, finally settling on, _“When?”_

“Before the armies merged, when else?” Tucker snaps. He runs a shaky hand through his dreads, striving to make his tone nonchalant. “It obviously wasn’t when they were torturing you! It was before I knew who he was…I’m not, like, making excuses, I’m just fucking _saying_.”

Wash is watching him closely, eyes narrowed, something dark and dangerous melting into them. “Did…did he hurt you?”

Tucker groans in agitation, spinning away from him. “No! Jesus Christ! Didn’t you hear what I just _said?_ He didn’t _force_ me, I _wanted_ to. I was horny and he was there so I let him fuck me.”

There’s a slight creaking of the bedframes as Wash pushes himself back to a stand, but Tucker doesn’t turn. “Tucker—”

“So don’t you _dare_ call yourself damaged goods,” Tucker says, still glaring at the wall. “You—anything that happened to you in there, you didn’t _want_ it to. But I wanted to fuck him, and I _did_. Don’t you dare blame yourself for anything that happened in that hospital, I swear to fucking _God_.”

Silence. He feels Wash’s hand brush tentatively against his elbow, and doesn’t resist when Wash gently turns him back around. He has no idea what sort of look he’s about to see on Wash’s face, and he’s unable to look for himself. “Tucker. Why didn’t you tell me this?”

“Well, Christ, Wash, I didn’t realize you required an alphabetized list of everyone I slept with before you!”

“That’s not—I don’t _care_ who—that’s not what I meant.”

“Well, what the fuck did you mean?”

“I meant that this…this really bothers you. Doesn’t it?”

_“So?”_

But even as Tucker bites off the word, he knows what Wash meant. He knows why Wash is looking at him like that, with that slightly stunned expression: because Tucker has talked to him about everything. There had been so much time to talk in the canyon, and the time that Wash didn’t feel with his incessant training schedule, Tucker filled with stories. There’d been a part of him that was convinced they were going to die in that canyon, and he felt an overwhelming urge to talk about things. Wash had never reciprocated—he hadn’t been a very good talker then, but he’d been one hell of a listener. Tucker had told him about Alpha, about birthing Junior, about his family. It felt like something poisonous was being leached out of him with each story. Tucker had told Wash everything, had made no effort to hide the uglier parts of his stories.

But he hadn’t told him _this._

“It doesn’t _matter,_ ” Tucker says with a dismissive hand wave. “It was sex that I had with some guy who turned out to be a mega douche. End of story. Unless you want to call me damaged goods, too?”

He hates the genuine question in his voice, hates the open, vulnerable tone that’s in every word and probably all over his face. Wash’s hand is steady under his chin and when he tilts Tucker’s face up, Tucker finally meets his eyes. “Did you think I would?”

Tucker shrugs. “I wouldn’t have blamed you for being disgusted. I’m pretty disgusted myself when I think about it.”

“You know that what he did to you was wrong.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” Tucker snaps. “He didn’t _do anything_ to me. Anything he did I let him do.”

“He manipulated you,” Wash says quietly. “He made you think he was someone that he wasn’t.”

Tucker snorts, pulling away from Wash once more. “And what if he didn’t? What if I wanted to let him fuck me? Huh? What if I _liked_ it?”

“What if you did?”

Tucker falters. “Huh?”

Wash shrugs, but the action isn’t dismissive. “Well—you were hurting, and stressed, and you found something that made you feel better. You didn’t do anything _wrong_.”

“Yes, I did,” he snaps. “I did. I fucked around with someone who I shouldn’t have and I _liked_ it and it’s _disgusting_ that—”

“It’s not,” Wash says firmly. “You had sex with someone and that’s it. Tucker, you have nothing to be ashamed of. You have no reason to think that what you did was wrong or dirty—”

“But you do?”

Wash looks at him, long and hard, before sitting back down on the bed and passing a hand over his eyes. “God, this is such a mess.”

“Yeah,” Tucker says, for lack of anything else to add. “Yeah.”

Wash drops his hand and looks at Tucker, turning to face him. “Tell me.”

“Tell you…what?”

“About Felix. Tell me about it.”

“What, like details?”

“Whatever you like.”

 “It’s just—” the words burst out of him entirely without his permission, and he closes his mouth furiously.

Wash doesn’t say anything, just sits down on the bed and looks at Tucker. He pats the bed next to him, and the gestures is both awkward and endearing all at once, and Tucker relents, sitting next to him. “It’s just,” he repeats, “it’s just that— _look,_ I’ve had a lot of fucked up sex, alright? Like, I’ve done some shit I’m not proud of, and people have done shit to me, but I’ve never felt like…like…I was real upset, you know? It’s just…Freelancer was shitty…taking down the Director and all that, but…I was okay. You guys missing—that just fucking _sucked_. A lot. It felt real. Freelancer always felt fake—I mean, probably because it was—but you guys gone, that was _real_. And he—he fucking knew that. He knew all of that, and he…I just really, really thought he was on our side.”

“You couldn’t have known that he wasn’t.” Wash says. “None of us knew what we were walking into.”

“But _still,_ ” Tucker insists. “I was just—so fucking wound up, and so depressed and shit, and he was there and I…”

He trails off, staring hard at the opposite wall. “I just felt really fucking stupid,” he says finally, and once he says it it’s as if a weight’s been lifted. “I felt so dumb. I really, really didn’t see that coming and then after it was like, why the fuck _wouldn’t_ I? My whole military career was a lie—why wouldn’t we get dropped smack into the middle of another fake war?”

Wash says nothing, just reaches for Tucker’s hand, and it says more than words ever could. “So anyway,” Tucker says abruptly. “I wanted to do that. You didn’t. So.”

“Nothing happened,” Wash says. “They banged me around pretty good, but as far as that mark went…they wanted to put on a show.”

“Well, it fucking worked,” Tucker mutters. “Thought I was gonna lose my mind…I still do, every time I think about it. It was bad enough that I wasn’t quick enough to get to you, but then I saw that hickey and I knew it was my fault—”

“Tucker.” Wash tugs on his hand until Tucker meets his eyes. “It was not your fault."

"Thought I could forget about it," Tucker says. "About the fucking. I _did_ forget it about it. Thought I could pretend it never happened, until I saw you on that video..."

"Tucker," Wash says, softer still, "I’m _right here._ I’m okay. We're _both_ okay.”

It’s different, somehow, the way he says it this time: not the dull, automatic _I’m fine,_ but something solid and steady and _present_. Tucker’s arms ache with a sudden emptiness, and when he reaches for Wash, Wash reaches right back, their arms slotting around each other’s waists and necks, chest to chest, cheek to cheek. Tucker shifts a little so that he can lay down, tugging Wash with him, and Wash goes easily, burying his face in the crook of Tucker’s neck. They stay there for a while, Tucker’s hands stroking through Wash’s hair, so very long between his fingers. It’s uneven in the back, bits of it rough and broken on the ends where the fire singed them, but Tucker does not shy away from them.

When Wash finally shifts his weight a little, the motion drags his considerable scruff along Tucker’s neck. Tucker squirms, and Wash lifts his head. “What?”

“That tickles.” Tucker reaches for his face, running his palms along the scruff. “Kinda sexy, though.”

Wash grins, and when he leans down to kiss Tucker, it doesn’t feel monumental, or special, or ground breaking. It does not feel like the end of a road or the beginning of a new one.

It feels, quite simply, like coming home.

And as Wash’s breathing evens out, as his bones melt into Tucker’s and he sighs in sleepy contentment when Tucker slowly drags a blanket over both of them so as not to wake him, as Tucker drifts off to Wash’s hair beneath his hands and Wash’s breath against the pulse of his throat, the word beats like a drum inside of him: home, home, home.

* * *

Tucker awakens first the next morning and spends five minutes frantically trying to figure out if he’s dreaming or not. It isn’t until Wash snores himself awake and blinks around the room that something loosens in Tucker’s spine, and he snorts with laughter.

Wash looks so indignant that it makes Tucker laugh even harder. “Dude, you were snoring.”

“I was _not_ ,” Wash says, his tone suggesting that Tucker has just committed a mortal offense. “I do not snore.”

“You were just now.”

“I was not!”

Tucker laughs harder, reversing their positions to that Wash is beneath him, and blows a raspberry on his neck. Wash lets out a little yelp of laughter and Tucker does it again until he laughs even harder. Tucker pulls back to look at him, breath catching in his throat a little at the way Wash is grinning, hair in his face, eyes crinkled up in mirth. Tucker feels his stomach pull a little with want at the way Wash is looking at him, calm and trusting, hands open and easy on Tucker’s shoulders. He’ll never get over it. He’ll never get over the way Wash looks beneath him, will never get over the way it makes him feel when Wash surrenders completely, body melting into the mattress, mouth opening in a gasp—

Tucker forces himself to put a swift stop to that particular line of thinking and rolls off of Wash, glancing at the clock. “Ugh. I have training with the Architect in half an hour.”

“Mmm.” Wash reaches for him, fingers trailing over Tucker’s cheek. “I’m meeting Dr. Grey soon myself. We should get moving.”

Tucker waits as Wash dresses—he’d actually fallen asleep in his fatigues last night, waking up only to kick his boots off—and together, they start down the hallway. Wash walks him to the gym, where Dr. Tronosky is already in the middle of some pretentious looking kata.

Tucker rolls his eyes, and turns to plant a kiss on Wash’s cheek. “Can we…we’ll talk more later, right? I mean, if that’s okay?”

Wash smooths a hand down Tucker’s arm. “Do you want to?”

“Yeah,” Tucker says, after a moment of hesitation. “Yeah, I do. I want you to talk to me. If you can.”

“Okay.”

“Okay. I’ll…” Wash pauses. “I’ll try.”

Tucker nods and kisses him again, on the lips this time. “Go on,” Wash says when they part. “I’ll see you later.”

With a wave to Dr. Tronosky, Wash exits the room. Tucker watches him until the door shuts, turning back around with a sigh. Dr. Tronosky is watching him, a strange expression on his face, and Tucker frowns. “What?”

“Nothing,” Dr. Tronosky says serenely. “Are you ready?”

It’s as good of a training session as any, perhaps even better than usual. They are both rather quiet and focused, and it isn’t until they take a break halfway through the session that Dr. Tronosky turns to Tucker. “You would’ve killed me.”

Tucker lowers his canteen, squinting suspiciously. “Uh, _what?_ ”

“When we first met.” Dr. Tronosky takes a sip from his own canteen before turning to Tucker thoughtfully. “When you thought I was a threat to Wash. You would’ve killed me.”

Tucker blinks. “Uh, no shit? What, did you just figure that out? Because I sure as fuck wasn’t trying to be _subtle_ about it.”

“Don’t worry,” Dr. Tronosky says dryly. “You weren’t.”

He falls silent once more, leaning against the wall to observe the rest of the training room while Tucker fidgets, unwilling to break the silence. When it becomes clear that Dr. Tronosky isn’t going to explain further, Tucker clears his throat. “Okay, so, are you trying to be a cryptic asshole on purpose, or—”

“He had no one, last time,” Dr. Tronosky breaks in. “No one to fight for him. He had no one in his corner.”

Tucker freezes before setting his canteen down and turning to face the doctor fully. He doesn’t say anything, just sets his jaw and lifts his chin defiantly while Dr. Tronosky visibly searches for his next words.

“But _you_ ,” Tronosky says finally, careful deliberation in his voice. “You would lay down your own life to keep him safe.”

“What the fuck is your point?”

“My point,” Tronosky says, readying is sword, “is it’s nice to see someone fighting for him like that. So keep doing it. The fighting. Even if the person you are fighting is me.”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t going to ask your permission, dude.”

“I know,” Tronosky says with a wry smile.

Tucker rolls his eyes again, harder this time. “Oh my God. You two are like fucking kindred spirits with the melodrama.” 

Tronosky laughs. “Come on. Sword up.”

Tucker raises his sword and this time, it’s far easier to lose himself in the rhythmic clacking. Clacking is good. Clacking means learning, and training, and being able to protect the ones that he loves.

It means, Tucker thinks dimly, that with every clack, and every bruise, and every curse, that he is improving, that he—

That he is getting _better._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *  
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> (the past pairing is Tucker/ Felix)  
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> Apologies once again for last week's delay - thank you all so much for your understanding and kind messages. <3 Five more chapters to go...!


	38. Chapter 38

_The red is stark across the bright aqua stripes of his armor._

_Wash pauses momentarily at the sight, unsure why it caught his eye. Being covered in someone else’s blood is hardly a new experience for him, and he has very nearly grown numb to it over the years. It has been a long time since the sights or smells of a bloody battle have phased him, but he hesitates now with the knife clenched tightly in his fist, stomach turning for reasons he can’t explain._

I haven’t eaten much today, _he thinks almost absently._ That could be it. _It could be a lot of things, like the rapid changes in the weather, or the weird headaches he’s been having._

_It could even be the fact that the bright aqua armor of the simulation trooper bleeding out in front of him is precisely the same shade of the stripes on Wash’s own armor._

_“Oh, you asshole,” he gasps, hand pressing into the knife wound in his stomach. He tips forward slightly, sword blinking away as he catches himself with one hand, coughing wetly. “Aw, mother_ fucker _, that hurts.”_

_The sim trooper’s voice cuts through the fog in Wash’s head and sticks there, insistent and familiar for no reason. “I’m going to kill you now,” Wash says, more to convince himself than anything else._

_The soldier laughs a little, a weak little hiccup as he pushes himself back up to his knees. “Yeah? Fucking…fucking come over here and try it, then.”_

_His words are already slurring, and Wash can see the he’s got his hand shoved almost completely into the gaping wound of his abdomen, trying to keep his intestines in. Wash can’t stop replaying the sound he’d made when Wash had sunk his knife in up to the hilt and twisted. The sim trooper had gasped not so much in pain, not even in surprise, but—_

Betrayal _, Wash thinks now as he edges closer. Betrayal, as if he didn’t think Wash would actually do it._

 _As if he’d expected_ better _of him._

_The sim trooper lunges forward, taking a half-hearted swipe at Wash’s legs. Wash steps smoothly to the side, kicking the sword away and pivoting to stand behind him. He wraps a hand around the sim trooper’s chin to expose his neck, presses the blade of his knife in firmly against the rough Kevlar suit, and slices hard—_

_Except he_ doesn’t. _Wash’s intent to do just that is so clear that it takes him several moments to realize he has frozen with the blade pressed into the soldier’s throat as his free hand paws weakly at Wash’s arm. It’s as if his own body doesn’t want to listen to him, doesn’t want to spill more blood on that aqua armor, doesn’t want to_ hurt _Tucker—_

_“Tucker,” he says out loud now. “You’re Tucker.”_

_“You want a fucking medal?” Tucker grits out, still trying to tug Wash’s arm away. “Is this some kind of weird fucking merc ritual, where you gotta say the name of the person you’re about to kill?”_

_Wash ignores him. Of course he knows that name. Why wouldn’t he? This was the one Felix was always talking about, the one he’d nearly killed—_

_But Wash can’t help but feel that that isn’t right. There’s another memory tugging at him, of two other bickering Blue soldiers who’d told stories of their missing teammate, of a soldier in aqua armor tugging off his own grey boot and telling him to hurry the fuck up and change armor, they didn’t have all fucking_ day _—_

_“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!”_

_Wash startles, and Tucker flinches as the blade digs into his neck. Felix is standing on the small hillside above them, waving his arms in agitation. “I told you that_ I _wanted to fucking kill him!”_

_“Don’t be so childish, Felix.” Locus voice comes over their radio and Wash glances up to see him across the clearing as well. “Agent Washington, kill him.”_

_“But_ I _wanted to!” Felix says, his voice edging very near a whine. “I specifically_ told _you that he was_ mine _—”_

_“Ugh,” Tucker mutters. His hand has fallen away from his abdomen now, and he’s sagging weakly in Wash’s arms. “Dude, do me a favor and just off me already, alright? Least I can die knowing that motherfucker didn’t get the satisfaction.”_

_“I’m going to,” Wash tells him, then raises his voice. “I’m—I’m going to!”_

_Felix stops yelling, voice sputtering indignantly. “Fine! Fucking do it then!”_

_“I am!” Wash yells back, and after several heart-pounding seconds, he cradles Tucker’s head almost reverently as he draws the knife hard across his throat. The blade catches in the Kevlar even as it bites into the skin beneath it, and Wash has to yank hard to free it. Tucker thrashes before his body starts to go limp, and Wash lowers him into the snow. His blood stains the bright white and aqua and Wash stares until he goes still, yanks off his helmet, and vomits next to the body in the snow. Felix is yelling something at him but it doesn’t matter because Tucker is dead and_ that _doesn’t matter because this isn’t real—_

 _He’s awake now, scrambling back against the wall of a hospital room, lights bright and pressing into his eyes. There’s a ringing in his ears and he can’t figure out where it’s coming from. His throat hurts, scraped raw on the inside from the breathing tube that he’d yanked out, and aching on the outside from where the hard points of Felix’s armored hands had dug into it mercilessly. It hurts and he claws at it now; there are little spots in his vision and he doesn’t know where he_ is _. He can no longer see Locus, can no longer hear Felix’s voice, but he can feel that he’s_ hurt _, there’s blood on his stomach and legs, and there’s a horrible stench filling his nostrils—_

 _Someone is calling for him. Wash hears his name once, twice, three times over the ringing in his ears, its speaker sounding terrified. He knows that man’s voice, he has to help him—he has to help him because that’s_ Tucker _but it_ can’t _be because Wash just killed him—_

Wash forces his eyes open and more darkness fills his vision. It takes a moment for him to adjust and when he does, Tucker is bending over him, face filled with fear, hands trembling on Wash’s shoulders. Wash has to get up and _save_ him—he paws at Tucker’s arms but he can’t sit up, he can’t even move; he can do nothing except lie there and—

Scream. He’s screaming, howling the walls down and _that’s_ why his throat hurts. He tries to choke the sound off and can’t do much more than mute it, the scream turning to a wail to a cry until there’s nothing but hurt animal noises punching out of him.

He can just barely hear Tucker’s anguished voice now. “Wash—Wash, Wash, _Wash_ , oh God, oh _holy shit,_ you’re okay, I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you—”

 _I’ve got_ you, Wash wants to tell him, but he can’t because he _doesn’t,_ he doesn’t even have himself. He’s shaking so hard that his teeth are chattering; he bites down hard on the inside of his cheek and blood fills his mouth. His head is pressed into the back of his pillow because he has to protect his implants, there are _things_ inside his head and they need to come _out_ —

Wash tries to sit up but can’t manage it; the strength has been completely sapped from his bones _. It must be difficult for a soldier of your caliber to be rendered so helpless,_ Locus whispers in his ear and he’s right, he’s right, he’s _right._ Wash twists in the sheets and manages to free his hands from the blankets and from Tucker’s limbs; he reaches behind his head and tears at his hair and the back of his neck.

“Wash, no— _no_ ,” Tucker says. He tugs Wash’s hands away and slides his own hands between the pillow and the back of Wash’s neck, cupping his palms protectively over his implants. “I’ve got them, okay? I’ve got them, I’ll protect them, I swear, I swear to God, just _breathe_ , you’re not breathing—Wash oh my God you’re scaring me, you gotta breathe, you gotta count with me, please don’t die, _please_ —”

Tucker’s words jar something loose in his brain, and Wash curls his hands in his dreads, tugging Tucker forward until their foreheads are pressed together. _This—this is okay._ Tucker is protecting his implants and this is _okay,_ he can hold tight to Tucker and he’ll be okay. “Wash— _breathe,_ please,” Tucker whimpers, the words blowing gently across Wash’s lips. Wash breathes them in, takes his own name from Tucker’s mouth and repeats it in his head over and over. Wash, Wash, _Wash._ One, one, _one_ —

The breath that finally escapes from his lungs is a loud, ragged thing, puffing out across Tucker’s face along with bits of spittle. Tucker doesn’t even move, just cups the back of Wash’s neck stronger still. “Oh, thank God, thank _God_ , okay, _okayokayokay,_ give me—give me one.”

“One,” Wash gasps, and he gives Tucker two and three and seven and ten, and they pant into each other’s space and shake and shake and shake.

Tucker’s forehead leaves his own for only a moment as the door opens, flooding the room with light. Wash closes his eyes, focuses on breathing and lets Tucker handle it, lets him assure whoever is at the door—Donut, Wash suspects from the cadence of the voice, high-pitched and panicky, although he still can’t quite make out the words.

“S’okay,” Tucker says hoarsely, pressing his forehead back down against Wash’s. “S’okay, he’ll—he’ll get help.”

Wash nods, their heads bumping together. Things come back to him in pieces. His name is Agent Washington. He’s the leader of Blue Team. He is inside Armonia’s military base, on the planet Chorus, and he’s okay. Tucker is here with him. Tucker is here with him because he’s real, because _this_ is real. They didn’t leave him in the snow. None of that happened. There is nothing in his head. Locus isn’t here, Felix isn’t here, the Counselor isn’t here, which means there should be no blood pouring from his stomach except the lower half of his body is still soaked through—

“Oh God,” Wash croaks. He throat still hurts and he wonders just how long he had screamed before Tucker woke him up. “Oh God, Tucker, I—I think I—”

Wash presses forward, trying to sit up, but he’s still shaking and Tucker has to help him. “You’re okay,” Tucker mutters again. “You’re okay—it’s okay—”

“ _No_ , I—” Wash swallows, reaches a hand in between them to pat at his waist. “Tucker, I—I think I wet the bed.”

He did. He _definitely_ did, he _knows_ what that stickiness around his thighs is despite not having woken up like this in years. Tucker doesn’t even move. His hands are already back around the back of Wash’s neck, thumbs rubbing little circles against the base of Wash’s skull and soothing a headache Wash didn’t even know he had. “So what?”

_“Tucker.”_

Tucker must hear the anguish in Wash’s voice, because he pulls away slightly, hands sliding around the front of Wash’s face to brush Wash’s hair out of his eyes. “Okay,” he says. “C’mon. Let’s go get a shower.”

Wash fumbles for the lamp on Tucker’s bedside table and gasps as the room is flooded with light. His urine is everywhere, all over himself, all over the bed, all over _Tucker_. “Oh, God,” he moans, face hot, hands shaking. “Oh, _Tucker,_ I’m sorry, I’m _so_ sorry, I’m a _mess_ —”

“That’s why we’re gonna get cleaned up,” Tucker says firmly. “Come on, let’s go—”

Wash clutches at the sheets, but he can’t make his hands grip them. “I—I’ll wash these for you, let me—”

“Wash.” Tucker pulls his hands away. “ _Fuck_ the sheets. We’ll change them tomorrow, alright?”

He stands, fastening his hand around Wash’s and trying to tug him to his feet. Wash tries to follow, because if Tucker is telling him they have to go shower then that’s what they have to do. Wash makes it halfway to his feet before stumbling back down to the bed. He’s shaking too hard to stand, stomach churning with the effort, head swirling. The lights are too bright and he squeezes his eyes shut, tucks his head in between his knees, and vomits all over Tucker’s floor.

His hair isn’t long enough to get in the way but Tucker smooths it back anyway, holding it off of his forehead with one hand and rubbing Wash’s back with another. Wash breathes, loud and wet and ragged, trying not to be sick again. He can’t even remember the last time he had a nightmare this bad. Tucker lets him sit for another moment before slinging one of Wash’s arms over his shoulders and hauling him to his feet. “Come on. I got you, let’s go.”

He keeps his eyes closed as they filter out into the hallway, and a familiar voice reaches his ears. “Oh, _Tucker._ He shouldn’t be walking! Dr. Grey is on her way and then—”

“No,” Wash croaks. He forces his eyes back open to see Donut in a pair of silk purple pajamas, wringing his hands. “No hospital.”

“Oh, but _Wash_ —”

“I made a mess,” he says, choking the words out. Tucker’s arm tightens around him. “I—I just have to take a shower. Please?”

“I….” Donut glances between them then huffs, moving to slip Wash’s other arm over his shoulder. “Fine, but then—”

Wash cringes away, face burning. “No—Donut, I’m—look at me— _don’t_ —”

“Oh, Wash, I don’t _care_ —”

“I care _. Please_.”

Donut pulls back, biting his lips. “I—okay. I’m going to get the two of you some nice clean pajamas, and then I’m going to tell Dr. Grey where you guys are—”

“No,” Wash says, stronger now. “ _No hospital_ —”

“I didn’t say we’re taking you to the hospital,” Donut says soothingly “I said we’re bringing the hospital _here._ Just let her take a peek at you. Please?”

“He’s right, Wash,” Tucker says softly.

“Fine,” Wash grits. “ _Fine,_ just—I just need to shower.”

His legs feel sticky, hair grimy with sweat. He feels dirty all over and his stomach is still rolling as if he’s about to be sick again. If nothing else, Wash is grateful that the showers are close. He barely makes it, keeping his eyes closed against the bright lights, leaning almost all of his weight against Tucker. Tucker half-carries him into the nearest shower stall and sets the water on full blast.

They both jump as the icy cold spray hits their skin, clothing soaked in seconds. Wash’s teeth chatter as Tucker lifts his shirt off his head, then goes to his knees in front of Wash to tug his sweatpants off as well. By the time Tucker has divested them both of their clothing and thrown them outside the shower, the water has turned warm.

Wash closes his eyes, pressing the back of his head against the cold linoleum. His face is still burning with shame and he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to look Tucker in the face again. “Stop,” Tucker says, even though Wash hasn’t said anything. “Just don’t. Okay?”

Wash nods, but the motion sets his head spinning and stomach churning and he’s barely able to get his head out of the shower in time to vomit again. “Oh, Wash,” Tucker whispers. His hands slick down Wash’s back and Wash sways into him heavily, the weight of his body suddenly too much for his legs. Tucker guides him to his hands and knees and Wash heaves there for a while, gagging over the drain and trying to breathe. “Wash, talk to me, tell me what’s wrong. What hurts?”

“Nightmare,” he chokes out. “My—my head. _Hurts._ ”

Tucker’s hands instantly move to his head, fingers smoothing over Wash’s temples, thumbs dragging circles down the back of his neck. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?”

“No,” Wash moans. “No…don’t want….the hospital…”

“I know,” Tucker says, voice hesitant. “I _know,_ dude, but—”

“Don’t—Tucker—please don’t take me there, please, _please_ —”

“Then you have to breathe,” Tucker says firmly. He presses his lips to the back of Wash’s head, his next words vibrating pleasantly across the top of Wash’s skull. “You have to breathe for me until Grey gets here, okay? Can you do that?”

It isn’t until Tucker says the words that Wash realizes he’s not breathing, at least _not_ properly. The air that’s hitting his lungs is weak and thready, as if he’s sucking it in through a straw between the dry heaving that won’t seem to stop.

So they count again. Wash tears his thoughts forcibly away from the lingering claws of the nightmare and focuses every ounce of his concentration on giving the numbers to Tucker. He presses his forehead into the shower floor and Tucker presses his forehead between Wash’s shoulder blades, and they count and breathe, and breathe and count, until Wash has stopped heaving, until his head is cleared, until he’s breathing loud but steady once more.

“Good,” Tucker finally says. “That was good Wash, you did so good. C’mere.”

The warmth of Tucker’s body leaves him only for a moment as he ducks out of the shower. Wash turns his head to the side to watch and sees Tucker slipping back in with a fresh bar of hard-caked soap that’s always stocked in the shower room. He kneels by Wash’s side and tugs him back up to a sit, maneuvering them until Wash’s back is pressed tight to Tucker’s chest.

Tucker scrubs the bar through Wash’s hair until he’s worked up a soapy lather. “Tucker—you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Tucker says fiercely. “ _I want to._ Okay?”

“I’m so sorry—”

“ _Stop_.”

Wash stops. A part of him wants to protest, to tell Tucker to go and leave him here, tell him that he’s picked himself up off of dirtier shower floors than this, but Tucker’s hands feel too good, working the soap steady down his body. He scrubs Wash clean, of the vomit and sweat and urine, and directs him to sit under the shower stream while Tucker cleans himself off. Wash blinks up through the water to watch him and the breath catches in his throat. He watches, mesmerized by the water trickling down his back, the soap pooling in his collarbones, his hands scooping his dreads off the back of his neck. He squeezes the water out of them carefully, before turning the nozzle off and reaching his hands down to Wash.

“Come on.”

Wash takes his hands and allows Tucker to pull him to a stand. His legs are still a bit shaky, but he’s able to hold his own weight now, and the nausea has subsided. Tucker grabs a towel and rubs it over Wash’s hair before tucking it carefully around his shoulders and grabbing a towel for himself.

It isn’t until they are both dressed in the pajamas that Donut has pushed in through the door, and are sitting on one of the shower room’s benches that there’s a knock on the door, and Dr. Grey’s voice rings from outside the hallway. “May I come in?

Tucker glances at him, and Wash nods reluctantly. “Yeah.”

Dr. Grey enters at once, lab coat flung hastily over her pajamas. Wash suspects that she’s been pacing outside the doorway for some time, ready to intervene if necessary, and he’s grateful to her giving him a moment. She takes a seat on the bench across from him and Tucker. “What happened?”

When it becomes clear that Wash isn’t about to answer, Tucker clears his throat. “He—had a nightmare.”

“I have nightmares all the time,” Wash says dully. He knows it’s a moot point, but feels that he needs to put it out there anyway.

Sure enough, Tucker shakes his head, hard. “Not like _this_. That…Wash, that was the scariest shit I’ve ever seen in my whole goddamn life.” He glances up at Dr. Grey. “I thought—I thought he was _dying_.”

The misery in Tucker’s voice sends a wave of guilt through Wash, and it’s for this reason alone that he speaks up. If Tucker’s so willing to try, then he needs to be as well. “I threw up. Twice. I couldn’t breathe and I—I—I wet the bed. I haven’t done that in…well, not since Recovery.”

“And this was brought on by a nightmare?”

Wash nods, but doesn’t elaborate. “Was it different from your usual nightmares?” Dr. Grey prods gently.

“I….” Wash pauses, thinking. “No. Yes? It was….brighter. More vivid. But—I always dream vividly?”

“It was the worst one I’ve ever seen,” Tucker offers. “I didn’t even see him like that after the warehouse.”

“Is this because of what they did to my head?” Wash cuts in. “I know those things aren’t in there anymore, but…”

“It’s possible,” Dr. Grey says slowly. “It’s _possible_ that there could be some residual after effects that we are still learning about.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Wash—”

“You said I’d be okay.” He tries to keep the accusatory note out of his voice, but doesn’t think he manages it. “That’s what you _said._ ”

“You _are_ okay,” Dr. Grey says. “You _are_ —”

_“Then what the fuck was that?”_

His words are very near a yell, and Dr. Grey waits for him to sit back before speaking. “It’s _possible_ ,” she says carefully, “that your brain chemistry is still regulating itself. What was done to you was a horrible invasion of your body and mind. Your brain knew those nanobots did not belong there, and that the reality presented to you in the simulation did not belong there. Your body is still figuring out how to tell the difference between the two. A nightmare like that…it can be confusing. It isn’t _real,_ but it wasn’t artificially contrived, either.”

Wash scrubs his hands over his face. “So what you’re _saying_ is that my nightmares are going to be ten times worse now.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” she says calmly. “It’s only a theory. Even if I’m right, it’s likely not permanent. All I’m saying is you need to give yourself a bit of time.”

“I don’t want to give myself time. I…Emily, I just want this to be _over_.”

“I know you do, Wash. Things are just still a bit mixed up for you right now and that’s okay. Really, I’m rather surprised that this is the first nightmare of it’s kind. Just be patient with yourself—”

“They shouldn’t be mixed up,” Wash cuts in, unable to stop himself from interrupting. “They shouldn’t be—I put them all back where they belong, and…”

He closes his eyes, mentally scanning his boxes, running his hands across the smooth cherry shelves. Some of their lids have shaken loose, tendrils of memories spilling over the sides, and he sets to work tucking them away. A sense of unease settles into the pit of his stomach as he looks them over, even now unable to tell just what it was that he lost.

“What can I do?” Wash opens his eyes to see Tucker glancing between him and Dr. Grey. “I—I couldn’t even wake him up.”

“And you shouldn’t have _tried_ to,” Wash snaps. “The amount of times we’ve been over this—”

Tucker isn’t having it. “Hey, I did what you asked me too! You wanted me to call for someone and I did! You don’t _know_ that because you were so fucking panicked you didn’t even _hear_ me, but—”

“Alright, _look,_ I’m sorry—”

“And you weren’t even trying to hurt me,” Tucker continues, wounded. “It was _different._ You were—you were—I thought you were gonna hurt _yourself._ You kept pulling at your hair and grabbing your face and if you think I’m gonna sit there and do nothing and _let you hurt yourself_ —”

“Alright, alright,” Wash sighs. He grabs for Tucker’s hand and Tucker lets him take it even as he glares at Wash. “I’m sorry. I—thank you.”

“Don’t say thank you,” Tucker says sharply. “I don’t want you to say thank you for this stuff, Wash.”

“Okay,” Dr. Grey interjects. “Wash, it might not be a bad idea for you to spend the night in the hospital—”

“No,” Wash says immediately. “No. I’m not spending another goddamn second in that hospital. I’m sick of hospitals.”

She doesn’t look convinced. “Do you still have a headache? Any lingering nausea?”

Wash shakes his head, then sighs when she continues to look suspicious. “I don’t, I promise. Just—a little shaky. No different than any other adrenaline dump.”

Dr. Grey sighs, but she doesn’t press the issue. “I really think that this reaction was purely psychological, but I would still like you to come see me tomorrow for some scans. Just to be sure.”

“Fine,” Wash says. He glances at Tucker, suddenly exhausted. “Can…can we…”

Tucker stares at him for a moment while Wash stutters before he sighs. “Yeah. We can. C’mon, let’s go to bed.”

Wash rises gratefully as Tucker clasps his hand and tugs. Dr. Grey watches them stand, looking as close to miserable as Wash has ever seen her, and it brings a lump to his throat. “I’m sorry,” he chokes. “I’m sorry that I woke you up. I’m sorry that I’m such—such a mess.”

“Oh, _Wash,_ ” Dr. Grey says, rising herself. “I _do_ wish you wouldn’t say that.”

“It’s true, though.”

“It’s not true,” she says. “Wash—”

“You were sleeping,” he mutters again. “You—both of you. You shouldn’t—”

Tucker’s hand tightens on his own as he spins Wash around. “Wash, for fuck’s sake. Cut it out with the dramatics and come to bed with me. Okay?”

Wash nods, casting a final look at Dr. Grey as Tucker marches out of the room, his hand held firmly in Wash’s. Donut is still pacing the hallway anxiously when they walk out of the showers. “Are you okay?” he whispers, and Wash nods tiredly.

Donut doesn’t look convinced, but he nods. “Well, you just—just call me if you need me, you hear?”

“Thanks, Donut,” Tucker says and Donut gives them a watery smile before turning to head back to his own room.

“Wait,” Wash mumbles, as Tucker leads them to Wash’s door. “Wait, I—your sheets—”

Tucker sighs. “Wash, we’ll deal with it in the morning, alright?”

“I haven’t done that in years,” Wash says, his face heating up again at the memory. “I—I really haven’t—”

The look Tucker gives him is exasperated, but not pitying. “Dude, I know. I’m usually there, remember?” He lifts an eyebrow. “Usually you’re making a mess on my sheets for other reasons.”

Wash can’t quite smile back, but Tucker’s words do ease a bit of his shame. He follows Tucker into his room and sits on the bed, watching as Tucker opens the blinds and turns the light off. It isn’t until they’re laying down, Tucker’s head pillowed on his chest, that Wash is able to speak. “They made me think…”

Tucker goes very still against him, and Wash struggles to find the right words. “They made me think that—that you left me there. On Sidewinder. That’s how I woke up, in the snow, and…”

Silence falls again and still Tucker says nothing, just tightens his arms around Wash’s waist. “It was as if I’d lived a whole different life. I—I spent three years on that prison ship. Three years, and they’re blurry but I—I remember them, as if they’d really happened. I was fighting _with_ them—with Felix, and Locus…fighting against you guys. I didn’t care about _anything._ Only my freedom. It’s what would have happened, if you…if you guys hadn’t given me a chance that I didn’t deserve.”

“It’s not,” Tucker finally says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Wash, it’s _not._ ”

“Yes, it is.”

“How…how did they do it? How did they put that…in your head?”

Wash sighs. “I’m not sure. It was…some sort of drug. Some sort of simulation that my brain just…ran with.”

“How did you break it?”

“You,” Wash says simply. “All of you. It didn’t—something was off. I don’t know if they miscalculated somewhere or what, but…one minute I was fighting…fighting _you,_ and the next I was waking up in a hospital bed with a breathing tube down my throat.”

“That’s so fucked up.”

“Yeah,” Wash says. “Yeah, it was—it was fucked up.”

Tucker pushes himself up, turning so that his chest his pressed to Wash’s. “We’d never fucking leave you. You know that, right?”

“Yes,” Wash says immediately. He still isn’t sure, most days, if he deserves their loyalty, but he no longer doubts it. “I know. It was the only thing that kept me—”

He presses his lips together in a thin line, eyes closed, and Tucker leans down and presses his forehead to Wash’s chest. “Never,” he breathes again, and Wash clenches his jaw hard, torn between wanting to speak his next words and lock them up forever.

“What if….what if I forget?” Wash blurts. “What if I forget what really happened and that’s all I remember?”

“You won’t,” Tucker says firmly. “You _won’t,_ okay? Look, we’ll—we’ll go see Grey tomorrow. Fuck, we’ll go see the goddamned _Architect_ tomorrow. They can double check, alright? Make sure all that shit is really out of your head.”

Wash nods, arms tightening around Tucker. “Thank you.”

“We wouldn’t leave you,” Tucker says stubbornly. “Okay? We wouldn’t leave you, so just…just don’t think that. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

* * *

Wash doesn’t sleep much for the rest of the night and as far as he can tell, Tucker doesn’t either. He pretends he doesn’t notice the way Tucker constantly presses his ear to Wash’s chest, or lifts his fingertips to the pulse of Wash’s neck. It makes him feel both protected and guilty all at once, for scaring Tucker so badly.

Wash wakes a final time to Tucker peppering the side of his neck and collarbone with little kisses. “You sleep?”

He doesn’t see the point in lying about it. “No. Did you?”

“A bit,” Tucker says, and Wash fixes him with a look. “Dude, it’s fine. You’re gonna go see Dr. Grey, right?”

“Right,” Wash mutters.

Tucker pushes up a little to look at him, narrowing his eyes. He looks exhausted, and Wash feels his guilt increase. “Look, she’s…she’s probably right, you know? About this just being an extra shitty nightmare. We…we can deal with extra shitty nightmares.”

Wash nods, halfway through forcing a smile onto his face before dropping it. Tucker was honest with him, after all. “And what if that’s not it? What if it is something more?”

“Then we’ll deal with that, too.” Tucker kisses him, quick but sure. “Whatever it is, we’ll fucking deal with it.”

The determination on his face somehow only makes Wash feel worse. It was only a few days ago that Tucker opened up to him, told him the one thing that he’d buried the deepest, and Wash was pulling the focus onto himself. How often had he done that? Pulled the focus away from Tucker, when he was hurting?

Something must show on his face, because Tucker squints at him suspiciously. “What?”

“I’m just…I’m just sorry.”

Tucker sighs loudly. “ _Wash_ —”

“You’ve been so—so good to me,” Wash mutters. “You’ve given me so much more than I deserve, and I—I want to give that to you, too.”

“Wash, you have,” Tucker insists. “You don’t even realize it—all that shit you did, helping me with the knives? I was scared out of my fucking mind and you made me….made me not scared, anymore.”

“Right,” Wash says slowly. “Just—I want you to talk to me, and—”

“I know,” Tucker says. He reaches a hand out, tucking some of Wash’s hair behind his ears. “I know that. I don’t wanna talk. Right now, I want you to like, go see Dr. Grey and make sure there’s nothing else going on in your head that we have to lock down. Okay?”

“Okay,” Wash says after a moment’s hesitation. “Okay.”

Tucker nods, rolling to a stand. They dress quickly, Tucker pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll see you after?”

“After,” Wash echoes. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

He watches Tucker walk down the hallway until he rounds a corner, then leans against the wall scrubbing his hands over his face. He can _do_ this. He’s going to walk down this hallway and go see Dr. Grey. He’s going to make sure there’s nothing else going on in his head, and he’s going to deal with whatever it is. He is going to go get some answers, no matter how terrified he may be of just what those answers are.

And he is going to do all of that just as soon as he eats breakfast.

He ducks into Tucker's room first, intending to clean up and change the sheets, only find the work already done. Wash frowns, bewildered, until he catches sight of a lavender candle burning merrily on Tucker's nightstand. Donut. Of course.

It’s so early that the mess hall is only sparsely populated. He fixes himself a small plate of rubbery scrambled eggs, pours a generous cup of coffee, and is making is way to a quiet table when he spots nearly a dozen cadets huddled around a table with no food, their heads almost literally pressed together.

As he regards them curiously, Martinez catches his gaze. Wash watches, amused, as his eyes widen comically, and he swats frantically at Kennedy, muttering something that Wash can’t hear. The cadets turn as one to see him, every single one of them looking so guilty that Wash sighs and heads over to them.

“Hi, Agent Washington!” Britton says brightly, as she surreptitiously turns off her datapad and slides it across the table to Prajapati, who pockets it. “You want to eat breakfast with us?”

Wash makes a point of eyeing their empty table. “It looks as if you’ve already finished.”

“We have,” Bitters says casually. “We’re just hanging out.”

“Really.”

“Because that’s totally allowed,” Palomo says. “ _Tooooootally._ We’re not doing anything wrong. _At all._ ”

“Be quiet, Antoine!” Jensen hisses, and Wash sighs.

“What are you all up to?”

“Nothing,” they chorus, then glare at each other fiercely.

Wash rolls his eyes, planting his tray in between Andersmith and Martinez and taking a seat. “Is something wrong? Are you in trouble?”

To his horror, Britton bursts into tears. Jensen looks at Wash reproachfully, patting her on the back, as Britton chokes out her next words. “It’s—it’s—it’s so nice of you—you’re still healing and you want to make sure we’re okay—”

“Private Britton,” Wash says, alarmed. “Just—just calm down, alright?

She nods, trailing off into a series of sniffles, and Wash decides to drop it for now. Some of them do get up to grab trays of food for themselves, and breakfast turns out to be a surprisingly pleasant affair. They fill him in on every bit of gossip circulating the base, ask his opinion on all of the current betting pools (some of which he really wishes he could erase from his memory), and even set him up a Basebook page because, as Jensen puts it, “You can’t NOT have one!” He’s grinning by the time he finally leaves the mess hall, watching them fondly as they split off into smaller groups to start their day. They’ve come so far around him—and he around them—and he presses the memory of their laughter in the mess hall firmly into his memory.

 _Perhaps,_ he thinks absently _, if I box it up very tightly, I won’t lose it._

The smile fades from his face at the thought, and he changes tracts abruptly, heading down on opposite hallway. He can’t go see Dr. Grey just yet, can’t bear to hear her tell him that the loss of his remaining memories is inevitable. Besides, there are still things he needs to do. He hasn’t picked out a new set of armor yet, and although it’s a bit soon for him to go out on missions, he should be ready when that time comes. Wash strides purposefully into the armory, a strange rattling sound filling his ears. He follows it through the otherwise deserted armory, having just identified it as the soft hiss of a spray paint can when he spots Ali and Sabine, sitting across from each other with a pile of armor between them.

Sabine’s face immediately morphs into a frown when she sees him. “What are you doing here?”

“Just trying to pick out some new armor.” Wash starts to backtrack down the aisle. “I’ll come back later.”

“It’s fine,” Ali says absently. He hasn’t even glanced up from the armor he’s spray painting with his non-dominant hand, eyes narrowed in concentration. “He’s fine, Sabine.”

Sabine huffs, pushing to her feet. “Well, I’m not staying.”

Ali does glance up at that. “I’ll see you later, though?”

She regards him for a moment before rolling her eyes and bending down to ruffle my hair. “Of course, Ali.”

Wash steps to the side as Sabine sweeps past, then approaches Ali hesitantly. He’s already re-engrossed in his spray painting, moving the can in careful arcs. After a moment, Wash sits next to him, leaning against the wall and watching him work.

“Think she’s angrier than I am,” Ali says after a while. “About my hand, and all.”

Wash nods. He’s seen Ali and Sabine a few times since his rescue, and Sabine had made it clear she wanted nothing to do with him. Wash doesn’t blame her one bit. “I think people usually are,” he says. “Angier, I mean. When the people they love get hurt.”

Ali doesn’t look up, but his hand wavers slightly, the faintest beginnings of a blush coloring his dark cheeks. “Love, huh?”

“Oh, come _on,_ ” Wash says, exasperated. “And everyone was calling _me_ oblivious?”

Ali finally sets his can of spray paint down, grinning at Wash. “Yeah, well. You _were_.”

“So are you, apparently,” he teases. “All those drawings you’ve done of her?”

“I draw—I drew everyone!”

His expression only flickers slightly at the words, and Wash sweeps right on past it. “Yeah, but not like you drew her.”

“She has an interesting facial structure,” Ali says in a dignified tone. “And, _please_. She made every single one of them her profile picture on Basebook at one point.”

“My point exactly,” Wash says, and Ali throws the can of spray paint at him.

Wash catches it, grinning, and turns it over in his hands as Ali reaches for another can. “You teaching yourself to use your other hand?”

“I’m trying,” Ali says with a sigh. “Broke my wrist once in undergrad and had to spend a few months compensating with this hand.” He rattles the can. “Not quite the same now, but I’ve got no other option. These are some scuffed suits that need to be touched up. Don’t know how well it’s going, but…”

“Looks pretty smooth to me,” Wash says, leaning forward to examine the stripes on his armor. “You’ll get there.”

Ali rolls his eyes, but there’s no resentment behind it. “What makes you so sure? You ambidextrous?”

“I am, actually,” Wash says. “But I always have been. I had a friend, though, who taught herself to use both hands for weapons work.”

Ali pauses in his spray painting again. “Really?”

“Really,” Wash says. “Her name was Connie. She’s the one who taught me to…”

Wash trails off, his thoughts slamming to a halt. Connie had taught him how to use some type of weapon, had taught him something important, but he can’t quite remember what, or why. “You okay?” Ali asks, watching him carefully.

“Yeah…yeah. I’m fine.” He shoves both the broken memory and the unease aside. “The point is, it’s a learned skill.”

“Hmmm,” Ali says. He’s still eyeing Wash as if he suspects he isn’t getting the full story, but he drops it. “I guess the trouble is I don’t remember learning. I obviously took classes when I hit school, but I’ve been making pictures since before I can remember even _thinking_ , so I’m not sure _how_ to start teaching myself. I added my name to the prosthetic list, so I don’t know, maybe that’ll help? Told Grey to make sure B.B. gets her arm first, though. Poor kid’s been waiting for months…”

They lapse into an easy conversation, and before Wash knows it, Sabine is back, standing over both of them. “You’re still here?” she asks, exasperated, but her tone isn’t nearly as hostile as before. She’s watching Ali laugh at something Wash has said, and Wash grins at him before standing.

“I’m just leaving,” he says. “Ali—if you come across some steel armor, I could use a set with yellow stripes.”

Ali makes a face. “I don’t think you wanna wear any armor that I painted just yet.”

“Sure I do,” Wash says, and with a nod to Sabine, he leaves.

He starts once more in the general direction of Dr. Grey’s office. The broken memory of Connie rises to the surface of his mind, and this time, Wash doesn’t have Ali or the cadets to distract him from it. He paces the hallway, scrubbing his hands over his face, trying to remember and not remembering at the same time. The prickly scruff on his face scratches against his palms, and he suddenly can’t stand it another second. Wash drops his hands from his face, marching back in his room and digging up an old bar and the small knife he used to use for shaving. It’s been so long since he shaved and he has to do it _now_ , has to get rid of this before he does anything else. Shaving will make him feel better. Shaving will make me feel normal, and _then_ he can go see Dr. Grey.

He doesn’t run into anyone on his way to the bathroom, and the last few yards he breaks into a light jog, pushing open the door. The bathroom is empty and silent, a leaky faucet in one of the stalls offering the only bit of noise. It is strangely magnified in the space, and Wash hesitates in the doorway for a moment before pushing forward. He sets his things down neatly on the edge of the sink—toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving soap, a small knife—and reaches for the tap handle.

He’s just turned the water on when he catches sight of his reflection, a sudden sense of déjà vu creeping over him. Wash frowns, his reflection glaring at him suspiciously as he tries to place it or figure out if it’s some trick of his memory. It doesn’t take him long: it was this very mirror that he’d stood in front of all those months ago, after that electric training session with Tucker when he’d figured out that Tucker had been hitting on him. Wash had looked long and hard in this mirror, trying to see just what it was that Tucker saw.

He hadn’t found it then and does not find it now. If anything, he is much worse for the wear. There is a new scar across his cheekbone and although he can’t see it, he knows the scars on the back of his neck are even worse. The edge of the new scar on his chest peeks out from the edge of his shirt. It has healed, but it is among his ugliest. Tucker has not shied from it, but Wash can barely look at the mark without feeling sick.

He tears his gaze away and turns on the sink, mechanically going through the motions of brushing his teeth. It’s a miracle that none of them have rotted out of his head, as Wash can’t exactly remember using a toothbrush while in captivity. He revels in the feeling now, brushing each tooth with careful and methodical movements, then soaping up his face and moving onto shaving. He’d forgotten just how scruffy he got when he didn’t shave and he _hates_ it, the feeling of that bristly hair on his skin somehow suffocating. He should trim his hair as well, but he can’t bring himself to do it just yet. Wash focuses on shaving, reveling in the quiet pleasure of it, the soft _shiiick_ of the blade over his throat, the steady _dripdripdrip_ of the water in the shower stall behind him—

Wash gasps, a sharp inhale as the blade nicks the skin just under his jawline. The blood blossoms quickly, painting the white soap pink and standing stark against the skin of his throat as it dribbles down. He drops the bloody knife in the sink and reaches for the cut automatically with his hands, but succeeds in doing little except smearing it all over. He needs a towel, and curses when he realizes that no one has restocked the towels yet, and that he has forgotten to bring one.

No matter. He’ll just put pressure on the cut—it’ll stop bleeding soon, after all. It isn’t as if it is a true wound, it isn’t a big deal, and it’s _fine._ Maine had a trick for stopping the blood from shaving cuts. There had been one time, when they’d both been on shore leave, trying to shave at the same time in the tiny bathroom that connecting their adjoining hotel room. Wash had nicked the skin just under his jaw and was throwing a fit, and Maine had rolled his eyes and said—

What had he said?

Wash freezes in the mirror now, staring hard into his reflection, blue on blue. The memory drops off there, and doesn’t pick up again until they’d driven back to the spaceport two days later.  Maine had something about stopping cuts quickly and they’d gone out…dancing? Drinking? _Something_. It had been a good weekend. Wash remembers his stomach had hurt from laughing so much as Maine drove them back to the spaceport, but he can’t remember why. Maine _told_ him how to stop the bleed from superficial cuts, and Wash can’t remember that, either.

He shakes the memory around, examines it from another angle, unboxes a few more in hopes that he tucked it away in the wrong place, but it’s gone, like pages torn from a book. Wash stands stock still at the mirror, wiping absently at the trickle of blood on this throat and getting it all over his hands and the sink, but that can wait. It’s a superficial cut and he _knows_ how to fix them and he _can’t_ have forgotten it, because he has so few golden memories left of Freelancer, of Maine, and—

What else had he forgotten?

Wash turns to the section of shelves that hold his memories from Freelancer, thinking hard and digging deep. Another memory floats out to meet him, of another bathroom, another Freelancer: Connie, sitting up on the edge of a nearby porcelain sink while Wash shaved. He’d told her to get down, that she was going to break the damn thing. She’d ignored him, too busy eyeing up South who was sauntering across the room in nothing but her underwear as she’d gotten ready for a shower. Wash had rolled his eyes and given her a little shove until Connie looked at him with a mischievous grin, reaching out to ruffle his hair: “Oh, come _on_ Wash, you know I have a thing for cute blonds.”

The locker room vanishes and he’s bound to a chair in a tiny room with Felix’s hand pulling at his hair, eyes vicious as he’d leaned closer, told Wash that , _“It’s a shame, really. I have such a thing for blonds.”_ There’d been blood on Wash’s neck then, too, drawn from Felix’s teeth, and Wash wonders with a flash of anger if he’d made _Tucker_ bleed in bed, wonders suddenly if any of Tucker’s other scars are from Felix, if he’d given him something to remember him by.

Wash blinks hard, stepping back from the sink with a firm shake of his head. He closes his eyes and breathes, shoving away the thoughts of what Tucker had told him, of that _room,_ of Locus’s hand on the back of his neck, of Felix peeling the skin of his own wound open, but when he opens them he is on the floor in that cell, waking up in a pool of his own blood and making a bandage out of his filthy shirt—

Wash blinks again, startled to find himself on the floor of the bathroom, not that cell, his shoulders pressed into the cold tile wall. His forearms are stained red from where the blood has dribbled down them, and he can see that the blood has soaked into the fabric of his tank top as well. That cut must have been a little deeper than he thought. Stupid. He should’ve made sure they had razors on their supply run, instead of using blades. He should’ve brought a towel into this bathroom. He should’ve turned the water off before sitting on the floor.

He should get up. He should turn the water off, and go find a towel, or stick his head out of the bathroom and ask someone to grab one for him, but—

He’s _tired_. He’s so very tired, and it’s so much easier to sit here on the floor. If he gets up, he will have to see Dr. Grey, and he will have to listen to her tell him all that he’s lost. He has _things_ to remember, after all, so many things that can’t be gone, that _must_ be there somewhere. The bleeding will stop soon. He just needs to keep pressure on it until he can remember what Maine said. It will stop soon, it will stop, stop, _stop, STOP_ —

_“WASH!”_

Wash startles as the sound of Tucker’s anguished voice breaks through the room, bouncing off the walls and returning to him once more. He looks up, blinking, to see Tucker falling to his knees in front of him, eyes wide and horrified as he grabs for Wash’s hands. “No no no, please, oh my God, oh my God, please no, please no, please no…”

Wash tries to say his name but the letters stick in his throat at the look on Tucker’s face. He’s never seen him look this terrified, _never,_ not after he’d been stabbed, not after they’d crashed on Chorus, not after a nightmare, not even after he’d found Wash in that horrible room strapped to that gurney. His face then was nothing compared to the fear etched into every line of it now, and his hands are shaking as he grabs Wash’s arms and tugs them towards him.

“Oh my God, oh my God, _oh my fuck-ING God_ ,” Tucker is still muttering as he runs his fingers up and down Wash’s wrists. He pauses, frowns, then does it again, lifting Wash’s wrists to his eyes before dropping them and lunging for Wash’s neck.

“ _Tuc_ ker,” Wash protests as Tucker’s hands pat frantically around his throat. Tucker’s palms cup over his implants, run through his hair; he gets a hand under Wash’s jaw and forces it up as he impatiently wipes away the shaving cream to reveal the source of the blood.

“Oh,” Tucker says, his voice weak and small as his thumb brushes over the cut. “Oh, God.”

He bows his head over Wash’s arms and breathes deep, the sound rattling in his chest. “Tucker,” Wash whispers, bewildered. “Tucker, _breathe_.”

“I am,” Tucker mutters. “I am, I am, I just… _fuck_ …”

Wash is too afraid to move, so he just lets Tucker press his lips to Wash’s wrists repeatedly as he breathes, halting and hesitant. Tucker’s still muttering to himself, a mixture of _oh-fucks_ and _oh-my-gods_ and it’s not until an _oh thank fucking Christ alive_ escapes that Wash can speak. “Tucker…what…?”

Tucker jerks his head up so quickly that Wash jumps a little. His eyes bore into Wash’s before dropping back down to his hands, then up to his neck. “You cut yourself,” he says. “You cut yourself shaving?”

“Yes,” Wash says blankly. “Yes, I…yes.”

Tucker exhales shakily, and although he sits back on his heels, he still does not let go of Wash’s hands. “Wash, _holy shit_.”

Wash waits, but when Tucker offers no explanation for his behavior, just keeps breathing, he ventures a tentative, “Are you…okay?”

“No, I’m not okay!” Tucker snaps. “Wash! Don’t ever scare me like that again, Jesus fucking Christ!”

His voice is loud, pitching high in anger and fear, and Wash is at an utter loss as to why. “Tucker, I just…it was an accident. I’m okay.”

“You _scared_ me,” Tucker says, the tone of his voice changing instantly into something small and _hurt._ “You fucking scared me to death, Wash, _Jesus,_ I thought…I thought….”

He isn’t looking Wash in the eye now, just shakes his head and drops his gaze. Wash follows his eyes down, to Tucker’s thumbs rubbing circles in the bloody streaks over Wash’s wrists, and it finally clicks.

“Did you…” Wash gives his head a little shake. “Tucker, did you think that I tried to _kill_ myself?”

“Yes!” Tucker bursts, and it’s the complete lack of hesitation in his response that has Wash trying to tug his hands back, horrified. Tucker tightens his grip and does not let him go. “Yes, I fucking did! Jesus, Wash, I walked in here and saw all that fucking _blood_ and I thought….I thought…”

“You thought I tried to _kill myself,”_ Wash confirms. Again, he tries to pull his hands away put Tucker holds him fast. “ _How_ could you think that I…”

And then he stops talking, all of the breath punched out of him at once, because Tucker is _crying,_ great, gulping sobs that leave his whole body trembling. “I did,” he manages, the words barely distinguishable through his tears. “I did, Wash, I really, really fucking _did._ ”

He presses his face against Wash’s wrists again and _sobs_ , shoulders shaking, breath stuttering. “Tucker,” Wash manages, but the words stick once more in his throat blocked by horror and a strange sort of shame. “Tucker, I…”

“You—scared—me,” Tucker accuses. His tears are all over Wash’s arms now and Wash holds himself utterly still. “You fucking—scared the living _Christ_ out of me, Wash, I…”

“I…” Wash swallows, tries again, “I’m…sorry—”

Tucker looks up at him then, eyes red-rimmed and fierce. “Don’t say you’re sorry—don’t you dare say—Wash, just—just _talk_ to me, _just fucking talk to me!_ Just tell me what you _need,_ just tell me what you _want_ —”

_“I can’t!”_

Tucker’s eyes blow open wide, and it isn’t until he reaches a blood-stained hand up to wipe at Wash’s cheek that Wash realizes that he’s crying too. “I— _can’t_ ,” he says again, ripping the words from him and hurling them away. “I can’t—I can’t—Tucker, I can’t, _I can’t_ —”

He watches as Tucker catches his words, watches him gather them to his chest. “Can’t _what?_ ”

At that moment, the door opens to reveal Grif, standing there half-dressed with a towel flung over his shoulders. “Uhh…”

“Grif, get the fuck out!” Tucker snaps.

Grif’s eyes flick between the two of them. “Uh. Right. I’lllll just be going now.”

He shuts the door behind him, and Tucker sucks in a breath. “He’ll guard the door,” he mumbles, before zeroing back in on Wash. “You can’t _what?_ ”

Grif’s entrance did not have the effect on himself that Wash would have expected: the tears are still flowing hot down his face, and as Tucker reaches up again to wipe them away, Wash realizes that he has no idea when he last let them fall. “I—can’t— _tell_ —you.”

“You can tell me anything, you idiot—”

“No.” Wash takes a deep breath. “I can’t tell you what I want because I—because I—I don’t know _how._ ”

Tucker tilts his head at him, eyes filled with sorrow and glistening with more unshed tears. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Wash whispers. “Tucker, I—I can’t—I can’t do this, anymore, I can’t, I can’t—”

“Yes you can,” Tucker says fiercely. “Yes, you fucking can! Wash! You can—Jesus, dude, don’t make me get motivational—just tell me what you want! _Tell me!”_

 _“I can’t!_ I can’t—can’t do _any_ of this, I can’t go to Dr. Grey and have her tell me what I’m going to lose, I can’t do it, I…”

He opens his eyes as he feels Tucker’s hands leave his wrists and cup his jaw again, feels Tucker’s breath ghost across his face. “Wash. Fucking _listen_ to me. Whatever you can’t do, I will. Okay? I’ll do it. I _will!_ But you—you gotta meet me halfway! You gotta _talk_ to me, and tell me what you need and you you gotta _tell me_ when you’re struggling and when shit’s too hard! You can’t just wander off and miss your fucking doctor’s appointments and then go missing all morning and scare me half to death! Okay? Okay, Wash? Okay? _Okay?_ ”

The words echo around the locker room and Tucker falls silent, looking at him with those big, watery brown eyes. He reaches forward, winding his hands in Tucker’s shirt protectively. “I can’t—can’t keep putting myself back together only to keep losing things—I can’t lose _you._ Whether that means forgetting, you or—or— Tucker, I _can’t._ If I lose you—”

“You’re not gonna lose me,” Tucker groans, half-exasperated, half-earnest. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You don’t _know that_ —”

“And even if I do,” Tucker says loudly, “even if I kick the bucket—”

“That’s not _funny-”_

“Then you will be fine,” he continues. “I’m not saying it won’t suck, but—you have so many fucking people, Wash, so many—look, you have Caboose, who was so goddamn excited to give you a hug that he almost fucked everything up—and Grif, who is guarding the door—and Sarge, who apparently was a field surgeon in another life or some shit—”

“I know,” Wash interrupts, because it is important. “I know what I have, and I—Tucker, I can’t lose _any_ of you, I won’t survive that, I won’t—”

Tucker redoubles his grip on Wash’s face, pulling back to look at him a little more directly. “You will. Wash, you will. You have a whole fucking army out there! You’ve got—God, you should’ve _seen_ the people literally lining up for to come rescue you—I had to beat them off with a stick—So many people, and they are all there, for _you_ , at your back.”

“I could lose them too,” Wash whispers. His face feels hot. “I could lose all of them.”

“Wash, you’re not gonna lose an entire planet—”

“I could,” he says. “Tucker, I _could_.”

“Then you’ll find another.”

_“Tucker.”_

“I’m serious,” Tucker says. “I’m so serious. Wash. Don’t you see? You’ll find people. You will _always_ find people. Everywhere you go, you’ll find an army, ready to do stupid shit like rescue you from a minefield. _You’ll find them_.”

“I—”

“ _You will,”_ Tucker says earnestly. “Dude. You aren’t a lone wolf, okay? You aren’t made to be alone. You have a tribe. You’ll _always_ have a tribe.”

“And if I forget?” Wash whispers. His vision blurs with tears, and he wipes them away furiously. “If I forget you? All of you?”

“Then I’ll remind you,” Tucker says. “I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care if I have to remind you every goddamn day. _I’ll remind you_. We all will _._ ”

“Are you sure?”

The words are some of the most tentative and vulnerable he has ever spoken, and Tucker scoops these up as well, tucks them away, and gives his own back to Wash.

“I _promise._ ”

Wash feels his face crumple and Tucker surges forward, capturing Wash’s lips in a kiss. It tastes like tears and shaving cream and everything good that Wash thought he’d never have again, so he kisses him back until their mouths are breathless and soapy. He kisses Tucker because it’s important, because it’s true, because if this were a movie it’d be the part where they were supposed to kiss, only it would be on a hilltop or in the rain, not on a dirty bathroom floor covered in blood and soap and tears.

It’s a little bit perfect, anyway.

“Dramatic,” Tucker gasps when they part. “So—fucking—dramatic—”

“Shut up,” Wash says, and he kisses him again until they are both breathless and crying.

Tucker moves one of his hands to the cut on Wash’s jawline and presses down there, and they spend several seconds just breathing into each other’s space. When Tucker pulls away, it is only to stand and offer a hand to Wash. “Look. You haven’t even talked to Grey yet. She thinks this is all psychological, remember?”

Wash takes his hand without hesitation, and Tucker pulls him to his feet. The world still feels a bit shaky, but he holds tight to Tucker’s hand and lets that be his anchor. “That’s what she said,” he says slowly. “But she could be wrong.”

Tucker sighs. “I think I’m gonna make a new rule. No speculating about shit like this. We wait until the doctors do their thing, and then we deal with whatever it is. Which we’re gonna do right now. Okay?”

Wash makes a face, but nods. “Alright. May as well get it over with.”

He turns back to the mirror as Tucker leaves momentarily to grab him a towel. By the time he returns, Wash has finished shaving, and wipes his face clean. He feels ridiculous as he sticks the band-aid that Tucker holds out expectantly under his jaw, but he doesn’t try to argue. Tucker holds his hand across the entire base, his grip warm and strong, and marches him right into Dr. Grey’s office.

“I’ve got him,” he announces, and Dr. Grey glances up at them. Wash watches her eyes flick to the band-aid on his neck, but she doesn’t say anything, just gestures him into the chair.

“How are you feeling, Wash?” she asks, beginning to run her scanner over his implants. “Compared to last night, in particular?

“I’m…fine,” he says, somewhat surprised. “I feel good, actually.”

“No headaches? Nausea?”

“No. I think I’ve…remembered some things I’ve forgotten, so to speak, but—it didn’t hurt. Physically.”

“That’s good news,” she says. “Well. Not that you realized you’ve forgotten things, but that you aren’t in any pain.”

His stomach flutters as she pulls the scanner away, pressing a few buttons so that his brain scans come up. He’s reaching for Tucker’s hand before he can think about the action, and Tucker moves forward. “Hmmm. Well, everything looks normal, Wash. I’d say to keep an eye on this sort of thing, and let me know if you experience nightmares that bad again. I suspect you will, for a while, and I’d like to talk to about an anti-anxiety medication, but—”

“That’s it?”

Dr. Grey tears her gaze away from his scans. “I’m sorry?”

“That’s—my brain’s not dissolving in my skull? I’m not going to lose all of my memories?”

She furrows her eyebrows. “Well—I see no reason to suspect that will happen. This is just a simple check-up, Wash.”

“I just…” Wash glances between her and Tucker. “I just, tell you when my nightmares get bad, and take an anti-anxiety pill?”

“Well….yes,” Dr. Grey says slowly. “That’s the long and short of it.”

“I’m…I’m okay?”

Her face softens into a smile, as she turns to face him fully. “You’re okay, Wash. You’re allowed to be, you know.”

And as Tucker’s hand tightens in his own, as he turns to meet that bright grin, Wash thinks that maybe, just maybe, she’s right.

* * *

His sleep that night is not dreamless, but the dreams are fleeting things, as if they too are exhausted. Wash hardly moves an inch, and Tucker breathes deep and steady draped across his chest all night long. The one time that Wash does jolt awake, he fights to stay conscious for just a few moments longer, stroking his hands through Tucker’s hair and reveling in the warmth of his skin, the kind of warmth he thought he’d never have again.

He does not wake again until the sunlight falls across his eyes, and he spends another few moments lying still before pressing a kiss to Tucker’s hair, then his forehead, then his lips. “Awesome,” Tucker mumbles against his mouth. “Morning sex, let’s do it.”

Wash snickers as Tucker’s kiss turns into a huge yawn. “Hmm. Don’t you and Palomo have a training session in thirty minutes?”

“Ugh. Way to kill the mood, dude.”

Wash kisses Tucker again, and makes it just a little bit dirty this time before rolling away reluctantly. Tucker watches him through bleary eyes, the blankets still pulled up around his chin. “Where are you going in such a hurry? You’re not cleared for training, are you?”

“No,” Wash says slowly. He hesitates in the act of lacing up his boots. “I, uh. I thought I could get some stuff done today.”

“Oh.” Tucker pauses. “What kind of stuff?”

“I don’t know,” Wash says slowly. “Just…just that I want to do something.”

“Well, shit dude,” Tucker says. “Sounds like a plan. Go get it done…”

His words trail over into another yawn, and Wash ties off his laces neatly before leaning down to kiss him again. “Come on. Get up, you’re going to be late.”

“Hard ass,” Tucker mutters, but he rolls out of bed and starts pulling on his suit. “Ugh. Palomo’s been acting so _weird_ lately. I think he’s up to something.”

“Something like what?”

“Who the fuck knows,” Tucker says with a sigh. “Could be anything.”

He walks Tucker to one of the smaller training rooms, where Palomo is already fidgeting outside the door. He _does_ appear rather twitchier than usual, but Wash leaves Tucker to his suspicious line of questioning and wanders back down the hall. There’s a strange, buzzing energy in him, a desire to do something, take something back, although what, he isn’t sure. Wash finds a quiet hallway to stand in for a while, leaning against the wall and trying to focus his thoughts and waiting for inspiration to strike. Five minutes pass, then ten, and Wash begins to feel rather stupid, standing there running his hands through his hair. It’s uneven in the back, sending waves of annoyance through him every time his fingers run through the uneven strands—

His _hair._

Wash pushes away from the wall, a slow grin spreading across his face. He starts down the hall once more, purposefully this time, and sets a brisk pace until he finds Simmons, as suspected, reorganizing their main food supply closet. “Hey, uh. Simmons?”

Simmons gasps, whirling around and fumbling the case of ammunition he’s shelving. “Holy fuck, Wash! You scared me!”

“Sorry,” Wash says hastily. “It’s the no armor thing. I’ve been scaring everyone.”

“It’s fine,” Simmons gasps, a hand still pressed to his chest. “It’s fine. So, uh…what’s up?”

“I—” the words catch in his throat and Wash pushes on, determined. “I need your…help. Can you tell me where Grif is…please?”

“Oh…uh, sure, hang on…” Simmons pulls out his datapad and begins pulling up a schedule. “Why, what’s up?”

“I—need a haircut.”

Simmons jerks his head up. “You—what? But why do you need Grif for that?”

Wash gives him a look. “Simmons.”

“What?” Simmons says defensively. “He’s not going to be able to help you with that—”

“Simmons, I was _there_ when he cut Carolina’s hair, remember? I watched her try to give herself a haircut in Freelancer once. _Someone’s_ been keeping up with it and it sure isn’t her.”

“ _Well_ —”

“And don’t tell me it’s a coincidence that half the cadets suddenly look like they just walked out of a salon.” He sighs when Simmons still hesitates. “Simmons, come on. Please?”

“Alright, alright,” Simmons grumps. He skims through his datapad for another few seconds. “You’re in luck—he’s on a break now. Third storage closet on level B. Password’s ‘scissor wizard.’”

Wash stares at him, waiting for the punchline, but Simmons just stares at him with wide, solemn eyes. “The—I’m sorry, what do I need a password for?”

“For a _haircut_ ,” Simmons emphasizes. “It’s strictly referral only. I’m giving you an in, okay? Don’t fuck it up or I’ll have to hear about it.”

“Right,” Wash says slowly. “Right, I’ll just— _right._ Thanks, Simmons.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Simmons says, waving him on. “Just get on with it.”

He looks rather startled when Wash claps him on the shoulder a few times, but pats Wash’s own shoulder back just as awkwardly. “Thank you,” Wash says again. “I—know you cracked the lock. In the hospital. Where I was.”

“Oh,” Simmons says. His hand stutters on Wash’s shoulder. “How—”

“Grey,” Wash says. “She says she couldn’t figure it out, but you did. So, uh. Thanks.”

“It was just—patterns,” Simmons mutters at the floor. “Patterns and uh. Puzzles. You know.”

“Yeah,” Wash says. “Yeah, I do know.”

Their eyes meet, and Wash knows they are both thinking of breaking Epsilon out of the Archives, years ago now. Simmons had cracked a lock then too, while Wash had stood at his back. Wash remembers the moment vividly—how quickly Simmons had cracked the lock and, most of all, how he hadn’t flinched when Wash had stood behind him.

“Scissor wizard,” Simmons says again. “Don’t forget. And if he gives you problems just…let me know, and I’ll talk to him.”

Wash nods, clapping Simmons on the shoulder once more before turning to go. He follows his instructions exactly, and it isn’t until he is standing outside of the third storage closet on level B that he realizes that the third closet is, in fact, a spare clothing supply closet. Wash knocks on the door and spends several moments hesitating outside before pushing open the door. “Grif?”

Grif is there alright, sprawled out on a large pile of spare coats, dead to the world. Wash watches him in amusement for a moment before nudging Grif with his toe. “Grif. Wake up.”

It takes several minutes of coaxing, but Grif eventually rolls onto his back with a groan, glaring up at Wash. “What?”

“Hi,” Wash says lamely. “I, uh. Can I ask a favor?”

“No,” Grif says bluntly, pulling one of the coats back over his head. “Go away.”

“My hair’s a mess.”

“I’ve noticed,” Grif grumps.

“So...I need a haircut.” Wash casts his eyes heavenward as he rallies. “From the ‘scissor wizard.””

Grif whips the coat away from his face at once, squinting at Wash suspiciously. “How do you know that name?”

“Never mind how I know it,” Wash says coolly. “Suffice to say that I know people. Are you a man of your word, or not?”

Grif climbs to his feet slowly, folding his arms across his chest. He looks Wash dead in his eyes, and Wash feels oddly as if he in an old Western movie, and this is the show down of his life. “Turn around.”

Wash blinks. “Huh?”

“Turn. Around.”

He does, feeling ridiculous, as Grif moves closer. “So, do I just stand here, or…?”

“Shut up,” Grif snaps, so Wash shuts up. “Ugh. This is mess.”

“I know,” Wash says. “That’s why I need the…the scissor wizard.”

“You’re goddamn right you do.” Grif sighs. “Alright. Let me grab my things and meet me in the salon on the lower level.”

“Can I turn around? Wait, did you just say _salon?_ ”

“Just go!”

Wash goes, marching himself out of the closet and towards what appears to be a locker room on the lower level. It feels oddly clandestine, and he tries not to look suspicious as he fidgets outside of the locker room door. After a few moments, the door opens, and Grif yanks him inside.

Wash’s jaw drops as he enters the locker room, which looks absolutely _nothing_ like a locker room. It looks—there’s no denying it—like a salon. The walls have been painted a pretty cream color, and the lighting is nothing like the usual harsh, fluorescent glow of the locker room, but something easy and soothing. Several dozen bottles of carefully labeled nail polish colors are stacked carefully along a manicure table. There are plush stools set in front of all of the sinks, which have been repurposed to jut out from the wall and allow one to wash hair in. A shelf of brightly colored bottles of hair dye line a shelf, and Wash recognized several bottles of Carolina’s bright red at once—

And, seated in the lounge flipping through an actual paper magazine, is Carolina herself.

“Hi, Wash,” she says absently, turning a page in her magazine. “Grif, do you have a minute? I need a bang trim.”

“Got that right,” Grif grunts. “Sorry, Lina. Got an emergency case right here.”

He jerks his thumb at Wash, who gestures wildly at Carolina. “I didn’t hear her drop the password! Why doesn’t _she_ have to call you the scissor wizard?!”

“Red team privileges, Wash,” Carolina teases, tossing the magazine aside. “Think you’re right, Grif. Wash’s hair is in _far_ more dire straits than mine.”

Wash sighs as she stands, ruffling her fingers through his strands. “I haven’t seen in this long in years,” she says, voice softening a little, and it sets an unexpected lump in his throat.

“Yeah. It’s, uh. It’s getting a little ridiculous.”

“That’s one word for it,” Grif mutters, snapping a pair of scissors in a threatening sort of way. “C’mon, can we get this moving already?”

Carolina’s hand drops from Wash’s hair, and she rolls her eyes. “I’ll come back in an hour?”

“Make it two,” Grif says, eyeing the back of Wash’s hair. “God only knows how long this is gonna take.”

“Don’t worry,” Carolina says with a grin. “Grif’s pretty good with those scissors.”

“I have to tell you something,” Wash blurts. “About, uh. About when I was…gone.”

Carolina’s smile falters a little, but she merely nods. “Alright. I’ll message you later.”

Wash nods, and with a salute to Grif, Carolina leaves. Wash watches her go and shoves the conversation that they’re going to need to have later about the Counselor, aside. He turns instead to Grif, eyeing the place once more. “This is….well, this is rather impressive.”

“I know,” Grif says, faint pride creeping into his voice. “Took a while to set up, too. We got all this stuff on the—”

“Supply runs,” Wash says flatly. “Yeah. I know.”

Grif gestures impatiently at one of the chairs in front of a sink. “Come on, get in here. Britton will be by in a few moments to guard the door.”

“Why do you need someone to guard the door?” Wash asks blankly, as Grif shoves him onto a stool next to a sink.

“ _Because,_ Wash,” Grif says in exasperation as he turns the sink on, “then everyone will want haircuts. You know, you should count yourself as lucky. I usually only do this if someone can offer something in return, and I don’t see _you_ here with chocolate or cookies or, well, _anything_ of value, really.”

“Sorry,” Wash says, rolling his eyes. “I’ll be sure to—”

He flinches hard as he feels Grif’s hands on the back of his head, guiding him towards the sink. “Sorry,” he mumbles, his ears heating up. “Sorry, I—”

“Dude, it’s fine,” Grif says with a sigh. “Just lay back down onto the sink.

Wash does, leaning his head back down and tries to look as normal and sane as possible. The water is warmer than he expected, and he closes his eyes, letting the water wash over him. When Grif nudges him back to a sitting position, he goes easily, sitting still and silent as Grif  twirls the chair around and grabs his scissors. He doesn’t miss the way that Grif snaps them experimentally at his side, or the way that he raises them up slowly in Wash’s peripheral. “Just a trim?”

“Yeah,” Wash says slowly. “Yeah, can you just…clean it up?”

“I can try,” Grif says with a sigh, and he gets to work.

“Not too short,” Wash says after a while, and Grif lowers the scissors.

“Dude, your hair is fucking pink.”

Wash frowns, half-turning to face him. “What?”

Grif runs a hand through it. “It’s pink. You’re so fucking _blond_ that it’s still stained at the roots from all that blood. It’s faint, but…”

“But you can see it,” Wash says with a sigh.

“ _I_ can see it,” Grif confirms. “I mean, I know you can’t, but you’ll know it’s there. And _Tucker_ will be able to see it. There’s also chunks of it burned away where Felix went nuts with that lighter.”

“Can’t you just…cut all that out?” Wash asks desperately.

“I mean, if you want it to look like I cut it with a weed whacker, then sure.” Grif musses Wash’s hair with his hand again. “And it’s _way_ too long.”

“Okay...” Wash says. “So, then…what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that it’s gotta go. All of it.”

“Wait, _what?_ ” Wash says, alarmed. “You’re saying we have to _shave my head?”_

Grif is silent for a beat too long, and Wash spins to face him once more. “ _Seriously?!”_

“It’ll look best,” Grif says. He drops the scissors and fishes out his razor, gunning it in a threatening sort of way. “Shave it off, start new—”

“No,” Wash says. There’s a weird panic welling in his chest, and rather than investigate it further, he says it again: “ _No_.”

Grif sighs. “Wash, come on—”

“No,” Wash says again. “I don’t want to shave my head.”

“Fine.” Grif shrugs, dropping the razor back onto his tray. “No one’s forcing you, dude.”

Silence falls as Wash clenching and unclenches his hands in his lap. He contemplates getting up and leaving, but something keeps him in the chair, keeps him staring down at his hands. “I like my hair.”

“Huh?”

“ _I like my hair_ ,” Wash says again. “It’s…look, I just like it, okay? It’s thick and fluffy and it…it...”

“Fluffy.”

“Yes.”

“Wash—”

“I don’t want it shaved.”

“ _Okay,_ then!” Grif says, exasperated. “I’m not going to strap you to this chair and force you to shave it!”

“Good.”

Still, he does not move from the chair. Silence falls again until Grif breaks it with a mutter. “Don’t see what the big _deal_ is, though, or why you want it to look like you tried to cut it with a blowtorch—”

“I haven’t had it shaved since I was in Recovery, okay?” Wash says testily.

“Oh,” Grif says. “So this is like, _dramatic._ ”

“What?”

“Symbolic. _Dramatic._ ” Grif waves a hand. “You know, you don’t want to cut it because you think it’s going to symbolize your descent back into madness or something like that?”

“ _Something like that,_ ” Wash says through gritted teeth. “There’s really _nothing_ else you can do?”

“I mean, I can cut it however you want, but…” Grif’s fingers run through his hair again, lifting up chunks experimentally. “It’s pretty fucked up. If you want people to stop looking at you and wondering just what the hell happened, it’s the only way.”

“Oh,” Wash says, and immediately wishes his voice didn’t sound so small. He turns around on the stool so that he can face himself in the mirror, running a hand through his hair with a frown.

Grif’s exasperated eyes meet his in the mirror. “Dude, _it’s just hair._ It’ll grow back.”

“I know,” Wash says. “I just…liked mine, is all. I know it’s stupid— _Grif!_ ”

He cuts himself off with a gasp as Grif scoops the razor back up, turns it on, and shaves off a chunk of his own long hair without even blinking. “ _Grif_ ,” Wash says again, gaping at him in the mirror. “What the—”

“It’s just hair,” Grif repeats, and Wash winces as he shaves off another chunk. “You gonna let me do you now, or what?”

“ _Bowchickabowow,”_ Wash says before he can stop himself, and groans at the same time that Grif laughs, _really_ laughs, throwing his head back and slapping his chest with his free hand.

“You’re a fucking dork,” he says once he’s stopped laughing. He adjusts the speed of the razor to fit Wash’s hair. “Don’t worry. Tucker will still want to suck your dick even if you have short hair, and I’ll _still_ have to hear about it, and the world will continue to spin.”

“Yeah, yeah—wait, what do you mean you’ll _still_ have to hear about it?” Wash asks, alarmed.

Grif gives him a look, and Wash sighs. “Right. Of course.” He waves a hand at the back of his head. “Alright, just…just do it.”

Wash resists the urge to close his eyes as Grif places the raises to his scalp and removes the first chunk of hair. He moves carefully but quickly, and the top of Wash’s head feels cold as his blond hair drifts to the floor. It was so long that it was starting to curl at the ends. He forces his gaze away from the falling strands and meets his eyes in the mirror. They look even bluer than usual, and the lines of his jaw and cheekbones stand out sharply. Unfortunately, so do the scars. “Are there a lot of scars, back there?”

“Yes,” Grif says bluntly, squinting at Wash’s implants as he shaves carefully around them. He sighs as he meets Wash’s dismayed gaze in the mirror. “Trust me, you’ll be glad we did this. Your hair will grow back evenly this way.”

“Right,” Wash says. He watches in silence as Grif finishes, then runs his hands over his bare scalp.

“Here.” He turns to see Grif holding out his datapad, “It’s not that bad, see?”

It’s a picture of the back of Wash’s head. His implants are more obvious than ever, as are the burn marks and scars. While the effect is shocking, he supposes the effect isn’t quite as bad as when chunks of his hair were missing.

An idea begins to blossom in his head as he looks at his implants, but he tucks it away for now as the razor starts up again. He watches Grif shave both sides of his own head, then trim the top until he has a mohawk. “I mean, it’s pretty sweet, right?” he asks as he catches sight of Wash watching him in the mirror.

Wash rolls his eyes as the door opens to see Simmons peeking his head in. “Grif, did Wash—oh.” He stops, eyes flickering between from Grif, to Wash, to the piles of their hair on the floor, then back to Grif with a gasp. “Oh, _Grif_ —your hair!”

“Yeah?” Grif says offhandedly. “What about it?”

Now it’s Wash’s turn to glance between the two of them as Simmons visibly looks Grif up and down in a considering sort of way and Grif tries to pretend he doesn’t notice. “I—nothing, it…it looks… _good._ ”

Grif _preens_. “Of course it does, Simmons,” he says airily, as if this is a matter of no real importance. “ _Of course it does_.”

“Right,” Simmons mutters, his gaze snapping back to Wash. Right. Nice haircut. It really adds to the whole hard ass persona…thing. If that’s what you’re going for. Or whatever.”

“It is,” Wash deadpans, and Simmons backs awkwardly out of the room. He helps Grif scoop their hair into the trash bin, then stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks, Grif.”

“Whatever,” Grif says with a sigh. “Just—don’t tell anyone who cut it, got it?”

“You got it.”

He hesitates outside of the locker room as Grif heads off. After a moment, he heads back up to the training room where he left Tucker and Palomo. From the sounds of it, they’re finishing up, and Wash steps hastily away from the door as Palomo slams it open with a, “Yes, sir! Same time tomorrow, sounds gooooood to me!”

“I know you’re up to something!” Tucker yells after him as he exits as well. He glances at Wash. “Dude, you would not believe….”

He does a double take, trailing off as he takes in Wash’s freshly shaved head. “I know it looks bad,” Wash says quickly, unnerved by how still Tucker has gone. “And, uh, I know you liked my hair—I did too…it felt good when you…pulled it…anyway. But Gr—sorry, _the scissor wizard_ — says it was too messed up, and this way it’ll grow back evenly, and—”

Tucker has Wash pressed back against the wall with his tongue in Wash’s mouth so fast that at first all he can do is wonder just how Tucker got his helmet off that quickly. “ _Wash_ ,” Tucker mutters into his mouth, “you look _so fucking hot_.”

“But—but you—” Wash gasps as Tucker moves to bite his ear, his hands roaming all over Wash’s head. “ _Fuck_ —but you—liked my hair—”

“Fuck yeah I did,” Tucker mutters, and Wash shivers as the breath tickles his ear. “But I like this _too_ , you look like a fucking badass military CO…c’mon, tell me you want me to drop and give you fifty.”

“ _Tucker_ ,” Wash says. He means for it to sound exasperated, but at that moment Tucker reaches down to palm him through his fatigues and it comes out rather breathless instead. His eyes flutter closed as Tucker rubs at him insistently, the rough pressure of his gloves adding an entirely new sensation. He’s hard and wanting before a modicum of common sense returns to him, and he paws weakly at Tucker’s shoulders. “Hmm…Tucker…we’re in the hallway…”

Tucker looks at him slyly. “Fuck yeah we are. C’mon, start ordering me around so everyone who walks by can see what a _good boy_ I can be for you.” He grabs Wash’s hand when Wash gives him an exasperated look, although the heat isn’t there. “Fine, fine, let’s fix that…”

Wash doesn’t resist as Tucker drags him into a nearby bathroom, locking the door behind them and pressing Wash against the wall once more. He sure has been spending a lot of time in bathrooms recently, he reflects giddily, as Tucker bites at his neck and sucks a mark into his skin, on the opposite side of where Felix—

But he doesn’t want to think about Felix now, or any of it, and Tucker sure is making it easy to forget. “Wash, you look _so_ fucking hot,” Tucker mutters again into the crook of his neck, before leaning back to look Wash in the eye. “Hmm. Dude, tell me to get on my knees and suck your dick.”

There should be absolutely no reason why Tucker should still be able to get him to blush so easily, but Wash’s cheeks heat up nonetheless. “What?”

“ _You know_ ,” Tucker breathes. He yanks his gloves off, hand wandering down inside Wash’s pants as he rubs at him eagerly. “You look all _official_ and shit with that haircut. Like a total hot ass. I mean hard ass. I mean—Wash, come _on_ , did you even _look_ in the mirror?”

“If you want to…” Wash groans as Tucker drags a thumb over the head of his cock, hips snapping forward. “If you want to…suck me off, you can…I’m not…gonna stop you…”

“But I want you to _tell_ me to suck you off,” Tucker says enthusiastically. “I want you to like, _order_ me to do it. Like—like I’m under your command and I _have to_ , ya know? And I want you to use your _give-me-five-thousand-laps-around-the-canyon_ voice when you do it. Please? You were _always_ ordering me around in that fucking canyon.”

“And you hated it,” Wash reminds him.

“ _Exactly_ ,” Tucker breathes. He bites his bottom lip, eyes bright. “C’mon, _pleeeeease?_ It’ll get me off _sooo_ hard…”

It’s impossible to resist when Tucker is looking at him like that, when he’s _pleading_ like that, so Wash clears his throat. “Tucker. Stop.”

Tucker pauses in his movements, but Wash continues before any uncertainty can settle in. “Did I…did I give you permission to touch me?”

Tucker’s eyes blow open wide, and he moves his hand away from Wash’s cock. “No…”

Wash fights to keep his hips from grinding forward, focusing instead on the way Tucker is hanging onto his every word. “No, what?”

“No, _sir,_ ” Tucker says. He’s shifting his weight from leg to leg, squirming in his suit. “No you did not _. Sir.”_

“That’s right.” Wash can still feel that the tips of his ears are red, but Tucker looks positively _enthralled_ , so he gets over himself and lowers his voice even further. “Tucker— _Captain_ Tucker. Get on your knees and suck me off. _Now_.”

Tucker whimpers, dropping to his knees and fumbling with the button on Wash’s fatigues. He pulls them down around his ankles and wastes no time in sucking Wash into his mouth hungrily. Wash tosses his head back, a ragged groan escaping his mouth. He pants up at the ceiling until he falls into a rhythm, then looks back down at Tucker’s head bobbing enthusiastically over his cock. “Look at me,” he manages, and Tucker flicks his eyes up. “I— _God, Tucker_ —I want you to keep going until I come, and then I want you to swallow. Is that understood?”

He wraps his fingers in Tucker’s dreads and tugs gently until Tucker’s mouth leaves his dick with a pop. “I said, is that understood?”

“Yes,” Tucker whines. He licks his lips, mouth shining. “ _Yes, sir._ ”

“Good,” Wash says, and he grinds his hips forward until his head is brushing against Tucker’s half-opened lips. “Keep—eep going.”

Tucker resumes sucking him off, his hands steady on either side of Wash’s hips. Wash exhales shakily, hands winding in Tucker’s hair. “Oh God,” he moans, as Tucker sucks him into the back of his throat. “Oh, God, Tucker, I-I—”

Tucker’s hands tighten on his hips as he comes. His legs are shaking and he’s gasping as Tucker swallows him down, pulls off his dick several times to clean him before tucking him away. “That was good,” Wash mutters, then straightens with a shaky breath. “That was _so good_ …Captain. Glad to see you can put that smart mouth to work, after all.”

“Wash,” Tucker breathes, squirming. “Wash, I—can I come? _Please?_ Can _—_ ”

“Take your codpiece off,” Wash interrupts. “Nothing else.”

Tucker hastens to obey, tossing his codpiece aside with a clatter. He groans as he draws his dick out of his suit, clenching his hands into fists at his side. “Fuck, Wash— _sir_ —I’m so hard, look what you did to me, _holllly_ fuck…”

“I see.” Wash tilts his chin up with two fingers. “Touch yourself. I want to watch you get yourself off.”

Tucker wraps a hand around himself at once, groaning as he begins to stroke. “Oh, fuck me,” he babbles. “Fucking _fuck_ me...”

“I should,” Wash muses. His heart is pounding, face still blushed red, but confidence growing all the while as Tucker comes apart before him. “I should bring everyone in here so they can watch me fuck you. What do you suppose they’d think, if they could see you on your knees for me?”

“They’d see I’m yours,” Tucker gasps. “They’d see I’m all yours, sir—you could bend me over and fuck me while everyone watches, holy shit, can we do that for real though—”

“You’re so good,” Wash mutters. He strokes a hand through Tucker’s hair. “Keep going, you’re so good, so good to me, I want to see you come, just a little more—”

Tucker comes with a groan, dropping his head forward to press against Wash’s hip as he tugs at himself, coming all over the floor and missing Wash’s boots by inches. “Oh my God,” he mutters weakly, turning to press a kiss above the waistband of Wash’s pants. “God. That was so fucking hot, do you know how many times I fantasized about that?”

Wash grins a little, running his fingers through Tucker’s dreads once more. “Was that—okay?”

“Wash, it was _so-o_ much better than okay.” Tucker sighs, content, before tucking himself away and snapping his codpiece on. He stands, kissing Wash fiercely and running his fingers over Wash’s scalp. “You’re so _hot_ Wash, goddamn, you could pull off _any_ fucking hairstyle, you don’t need to worry about that shit—”

“I love you.”

Tucker’s hands freeze on his head, eyes flying open wide. Wash freezes as well, but it’s out there and he’s not taking it back. “I mean—I just. You, you make me feel good, and you came for me—not like, sex came—although you did that too—but you came and got me and you—you’re so good, the best man I know, and—”

“You _love_ me?”

Tucker’s hands are cupping his face so very gently, as if he’s made of glass, his words raw and vulnerable and filled with a disbelieving hope that makes Wash ache, that makes Wash wonder just how many times Tucker has heard that in his life. “I do. I love you,” he hastens to say again. “I—I trust you with my life.”

Tucker kisses him them, soft and sweet. “I love you too, you dork.”

It’s the simplest thing in the world, when he says it, as if he’s commenting on the weather or the color of the walls. Simple, but no less important—perhaps all the _more_ important, for the easy way it spills from his lips. Wash touches those lips now, tracing their shape with his thumb, those perfect lips, that have brought him incredible annoyance and unbelievable pleasure, that have spoken words that Wash has replayed so often he has every cadence memorized: _I’ve got you. Your name is Wash, and mine is Tucker. No, wait, what are you doing?! I want you._

_I love you too, you dork._

Tucker sighs, content, and leans forward to hug him, tucking his head into the crook of Wash’s neck and resting there for a while. Wash wraps his arms around Tucker and tries to look back in his memory, to count the steps that got him here, that got him Tucker in his arms, that got him Tucker’s love, but gives it up. He never could have seen this coming, not in a million years, and he has no idea what their next step is.

He only knows that he wants to take it.

 _That’s the thing,_ Wash thinks absently, hands rubbing circles against Tucker’s back. _About love, and sex, in a warzone._

_You never know where it’s going._

“I’ll meet you later, okay?” Wash says, when they part once more. “I’ll find you. There’s something I need to do.”

“’Kay. Want me to come with you?”

“No,” Wash says. “No, I’ll be okay.”

Tucker nods and Wash stands there for a moment, his head reeling before turning to leave the bathroom. He walks slowly, deliberately, making a path towards the infirmary. He hesitates outside of their doors, before turning to knock softly on the door of Dr. Grey’s office.

“Come on,” she says, and Wash pushes the door open to reveal her sitting across the desk from Sarge and Dr. Tronosky. “Wash. Everything alright?’

“Yeah,” Wash says. “Yeah,  it is…”

He trails off, and Tronosky half-stands. “We’ll go—”

“No,” Wash interrupts. “I want you to stay. Sarge…you can stay too, if you want.”

They look at him expectantly, and Wash runs a hand over the back of his head, his skull still feeling naked and cold. “I want this tech out of my head.”

They look at him so blankly that he says it again, stronger still: “I want this tech _out of my head_.”

“You mean your neural implants?” Dr. Grey asks.

“Yes. All of it. Every chip, every wire.” He looks between them. “Can you do it?”

Dr. Grey opens and closes her mouth several times before looking at Dr. Tronosky. “Can we?”

“I don’t know,” he says.

“Can you try?”

“We can put a lock on them,” he says. “We can lock them up so that—”

“I don’t want a lock,” Wash interrupts. “I want them _out._ All of them. I don’t ever want anyone in my head again. You said it yourself, that I have to be careful. Won’t it just be easier if we…take it out?”

“Maybe,” Dr. Tronosky says. “Or it could lead to brain damage.”

“Which I already have,” Wash says wryly.

“Wash,” Dr. Grey says, sighing. “It…I don’t know.”

“I want it out,” Wash emphases. “It’s _my_ head. That’s what I _want._ Please, will you at least look?”

“Yes,” Dr. Tronosky says. “I’ll try.”

When Wash continues to look at him steadily, Dr. Tronosky sighs. “I will. I’ll need to take some scans, but…I’ll look it over, and we’ll talk.”

Wash nods. “Okay. Thank you. I’ll—can we start tomorrow?”

Dr. Tronosky glances at Dr. Grey, who nods. “We can start tomorrow, Wash. Why don’t you meet us here in the morning?”

“I’ll be here.”

Wash’s datapad beeps as he turns to go, and he glances down to see a message from Carolina. He crosses the base until he reaches a door to the outside, and follows to where she’s sitting on a bench in the courtyard, Epsilon perched on top of the helmet between her feet. Her hair is vivid red and shiny once more, hair clipped short and spiky and freshly styled. Her eyes travel over his own shaved head, but she doesn’t comment on it. Neither of them speak right away, not even Epsilon. They merely sit, gazing across the courtyard at the war memorial, its bits of fabric and strings of jewelry fluttering gently in the breeze.

“So this mission,” Wash starts, and Carolina looks at him sharply. “The one where you’re going back to that…that hospital.”

“How do you know about that mission?”

Wash gives her a look. “Boss, everyone knows about that mission. I’m pretty sure there’s impromptu auditions to see who gets to go.”

She sighs, leaning forward to place her elbows on her knees. “I am deciding who goes on that mission.”

“I know.”

“Everyone in this army is far too eager to go out on these dangerous missions.”

“I know.”

“And if you’re about to tell me that you want to come too, then prepare to be disappointed, because you’re not.”

“I know.”

“I may not be your leader anymore but—” Carolina stops, sitting up and frowning at him. “Wait, _really?_ You don’t want to?”

“I don’t want to set foot in that place ever again, actually,” Wash says calmly, surprised at just how good it feels to admit this. “I want to go, to watch your back, and Tucker’s, and everyone’s, but…I would just be a liability. I’m not physically ready for fieldwork.”

It feels less good to admit that, but it’s true, and Carolina’s eyes flash with sympathy as she reaches out to squeeze his bicep. “You’re getting there. It’s always easier to lose muscle than to build it back up.”

“God forbid you Freelancers don’t have perfect physique at all times,” Epsilon can’t resist grumbling.

“Former Freelancers,” Wash corrects, and it’s never felt as good to say those words as it does now.

They fall silent for a little longer until Carolina sighs. “You wanted to tell me something.”

“Yeah,” Wash says reluctantly. “It’s about that mission. It’s just…you need to be careful.”

“We will, Wash.”

“No, I mean— _you_ need to be careful. You, specifically.”

She frowns at him. “Why?”

“It’s….when I was there…I saw…the reason they knew about my A.I. history was because….”

Carolina takes pity on him. “I know about the Counselor, Wash.”

He is at once enormously relieved. “How?”

Carolina hesitates, eyes flicking to Epsilon. “I wasn’t like, _trying_ to tell her,” Epsilon mutters. “Just. That was some pretty heavy shit. Took awhile to uh. Compartmentalize.”

“I would have known anyway,” Carolina says. “You told Kimball and Doyle what happened to you, and Kimball told me when we planned this mission. She—she felt it was something I should take into account.”

“She’s right.” Wash glances between the two of them. “I’m not mad. I’m—well, I’m relieved, actually. I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“He must have been on the Tartarus,” she says with a sigh. “It makes you wonder who else we might run into.”

Her words instill an odd sense of déjà vu in Wash, as if there is someone else he should warn her about. The feeling is gone before he can place it, and it isn’t one he can say he’s sorry to miss. “The point is, you need to be careful,” he says instead. “He’ll know you’re coming.”

“Good,” she says, her voice hard, then rolls her eyes at the look on Wash’s face. “I’m not afraid of him.”

“Be careful anyway,” Wash emphasizes. He prods at the bicep she’d squeezed. “I’m still getting my strength back, remember? Don’t make me come running to rescue you before I’m field ready.”

She looks up at him sharply before the lines of her face soften, melting into the kind of smile that’s still too rare on her face. “Agent Washington, you will do no such thing.”

“Oh, I most certainly will,” he says. “Count on it.”

“I do,” she says, and reaches up to tap gently at the side of his head. “This looks good, you know.”

He makes a face, running a hand over the back of his head self-consciously. “Eh, I hate it, but…it’s just hair. It’ll grow back, right?”

“It’ll grow back,” she confirms.

“And then you can cut it,” Epsilon quips. “Make a whole dramatic ritual about it like Carolina here…”

He yelps indignantly as she swats at him, and Wash grins, settling back more comfortably on the bench as the sun grows warmer in the sky. They sit there for a long while, and Wash thinks of Carolina’s words, about his hair growing back. He thinks he can feel it already, the growing back together part, as he sits with her, something inside of him knitting itself whole, piece by little piece.


	39. Chapter 39

“Palomo! _Are you listening to a goddamned word I’m saying?_ ”

Palomo jumps from where he’s whispering furiously with Jensen behind the rifle racks. Two pairs of guilty brown eyes widen as Tucker storms over, glaring between the two of them. “We’re listening, sir,” Jensen squeaks.

Tucker folds his arms. “Oh, _really?_ Then what’d I just say?”

“You asked if we were listening to a goddamned word you were saying, sir!” Palomo supplies. “See? _Totally_ heard you.”

Tucker weighs the pros and cons of shoving the entire rack of rifles right on top of him before letting out a low groan of frustration. “Ugh, you two need to knock it off and pay attention! The faster we get through this drill the faster we can all be done training! Look, Bitters and Andersmith are almost done with the obstacle course….”

He trails off as he turns to see that Bitters and Andersmith are _not_ , in fact, almost done with the obstacle course. Instead, they are huddled together in between two of the walls they’re supposed to be scaling, muttering over something on Andersmith’s datapad. “Are you two _serious?!_ ”

Unlike the other two, Bitters and Andersmith do not jump, just blink at him in confusion as Tucker throws up his hands, whirling to where Caboose is lounging on the sidelines, fiddling with what looks to be an old toaster. It’s hard to tell, considering the thing is in about fifteen pieces. “Caboose! A little help here?”

Caboose doesn’t even look up, just keeps braiding a bunch of wires together. “Three more laps, Paoli,” he says vaguely, and Tucker has to take a moment to close his eyes and count to ten. He is going to _kill_ Grif and Simmons for leaving him alone with Caboose to train the cadets.

Grif had been oddly twitchy when he’d asked Tucker to cover for them yesterday while tightening Tucker’s dreads for him. Tucker had hounded him so much about it that Grif had finally sighed, looked left and right despite the fact that they were _definitely_ the only two in the salon, and dropped his voice to a whisper. “It’s Simmons’ birthday, alright?”

Tucker stared at him blankly in the mirror before gasping loudly, whirling around to face him. “Wait, are you trying to give him birthday sex?!”

Grif had spent the next ten minutes bitching about how Tucker had almost caused him to lose his place in his hair, but the uncharacteristic blush in his cheeks made Tucker think he was on the right track.

 _I hope it was worth it,_ he thinks sullenly now. “Alright, everyone stop! Regroup!”

He waits until the cadets shuffle around him and holds out his hand. “Datapads. Here. _Now_.”

Jensen clutches hers to her chest, scandalized. “You can’t look on our datapads! That’s personal information!”

“What? No! I don’t want to _look_ at them! I want you to put them in a fucking pile and go run this obstacle course so that I can go take a nap! Jesus fuck! Datapads, _here,_ now!”

The cadets all hand over their datapads and, after a few dark, significant glances, begin running the obstacle course. Tucker watches them for a few minutes, trying to figure out just why he feels so unnerved, and then he realizes that the cadets are doing _well._ They’re running the fucking obstacle course as if their lives depend on it, laser focused on working together, and after skinny Palomo manages to bodily haul Andersmith up onto a platform, Tucker gives it up and goes to sit next to Caboose. “They’re up to something.”

Caboose spares the cadets a momentarily glance before turning back to what Tucker is now pretty sure is a tiny robot. “They are up very high, yes.”

“No, I mean—they’re _plotting_.”

Another glance. “You mean they are scheming. Plotting looks different, Tucker.”

Tucker gnashes his teeth together. “No it—fine. _Whatever._ They’re up to something. I mean, you see it, right?”

“They _are_ up very high.”

“Oh my God, _forget it_.” Tucker watches as Caboose’s tiny toaster robot hefts itself up on its tiny spindle legs and walks bravely across the floor before collapsing. “Caboose, what the fuck are you doing?”

For a moment, Tucker thinks he’s not going to answer, but he sniffs loudly and drags the robot towards him. “Dr. Grey has Freckles.”

Tucker waits, but Caboose doesn’t elaborate. “Okay…”

“She wants to put him in a gun to shoot for me.”

It takes Tucker a few moments to interpret that one. “You mean like, she wants to give him auto-fire control?”

Caboose shrugs morosely, and Tucker holds an internal debate on whether or not he’d prefer Freckles or Caboose to have control of an automatic rifle. It’s a difficult call.

At any rate, Caboose looks as if he’s about to start crying which is the _last_ thing Tucker wants to deal with, and the cadets are currently completing their obstacle course so enthusiastically that they look like mini-Freelancers in training. Tucker sighs, and drags Caboose’s robot towards him. “Okay, look, what if you made the legs a little thicker?”

* * *

The day drags on, and after his own training, a shower, and a meal, Tucker slumps down Blue Team’s hallway. He finds himself drawn like a magnet towards Wash’s door, almost independent of his own will. Tucker blinks at it for a moment, vague, half-formed thoughts of how this has apparently become his happy place swirling around, before he dismisses them impatiently and slumps against Wash’s door.

“ _Waaaash,_ ” he groans, cheek smashed against the door. “You in there?”

“I’m in here,” Wash says, tone amused. “Come in.”

Tucker does, dragging himself inside and across the room to throw himself in the small metal chair at Wash’s makeshift desk, because of _course_ Wash has a makeshift desk in his fucking bedroom. “Dude, did you make yourself a _desk?_ Out of...are these ammo crates?”

“I have work to do,” Wash says defensively.

Tucker eyes the papers strewn across the desk. “Wash, the only reason you should have a desk in your bedroom is if you’re planning to bend me over it and fuck me senseless. That’s the _only_ kind of work you should be doing in the bedroom.”

Wash scoffs, but he does eye the desk with a new intrigue that Tucker files away for later. For now, he just sighs. “Why weren’t you at breakfast?”

“I had a doctor’s appointment.”

Tucker frowns, thinking. “Wait, I thought you met with Grey on Tuesdays and Fridays?”

“I do.” Uh oh. Wash has that _look_ on his face, that jaw-clenched, chin raised _look_ that tells Tucker he isn’t going to like whatever Wash is about to say. “I had an appointment with Dr. Tronosky, not Dr. Grey.”

Yeah, Tucker is _definitely_ not going to like this. “About _what?_ Is everything okay?

“Everything’s fine,” Wash assures him. “It’s just…he was taking some scans. To see if…well. To see if it’s possible to remove my neural implants.”

Tucker squints, mentally rifling through everything he knows about neural implants. It’s a short list. “Why do they need to be taken out?”

“I…well. They don’t _need_ to be taken out.”

Tucker stares at him.”

“I _want_ them taken out.”

“Okay…” Tucker says slowly. He runs a hand unconsciously up the back of his head, to where his own implants are buried beneath his dreads. “ _Can_ they be taken out?”

“Yes,” Wash says. “Well. Most peoples can. He isn’t sure about mine because of….of the brain damage. That’s why he took the scans.”

All at once, it clicks. Tucker drops his hand. “Wash, for fuck’s sake.”

“What?” Wash says, instantly defensive. “It’s _my_ head and I don’t want anything inside of it anymore.”

“Well, what if he _can’t_ take them out?” Tucker challenges. “What then?”

“He’ll be able to take them out,” Wash says confidently. “I know he will.”

Tucker sits up a little straighter in alarm. “No, you _don’t_ know that. Wash, if he tells you he can’t do it and you still ask him to go forward based on like, _the principle of the thing_ or some bullshit—”

“Tucker…” Wash sighs, rubbing his hand over his forehead. “Can we not fight about this until we have to?”

Tucker pursues his lips, then relents. “Fine, but if that’s what happens, then we _are_ going to fight about it.”

“Tucker—”

“No, I…” Tucker takes a breath, trying to gather the right words to him. “I know it’s your head, but I—I want to know about it. Whatever you decide. Promise you’ll tell me?”

“I promise,” Wash says. “I would like your input, actually. Whatever he says.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Alright.” Tucker sighs, looking at the papers on Wash’s desk more closely. “What’s all this?”

“Mission plans,” Wash says. He follows Tucker’s gaze to a map of the hospital. “I’m trying to look them over and see if there’s anything I remember that might help.”

His words do nothing to soothe Tucker’s already fraying nerves. “They shouldn’t ask you to do that,” he snaps. “That’s—like you _wanna_ remember anything about that place.”

“I volunteered, Tucker.”

Tucker snorts, turning to face Wash with his arms folded tightly over his chest. “Okay, if this is leading up to you saying you think you’re going anywhere _near_ that mission…”

Wash frowns. “Why does everyone keep thinking I’m going to say that?!”

“Because you’re _not_ going,” Tucker continues fiercely. “I don’t fucking care, you’re not going anywhere near that place ever again.”

“Alright.”

“Or on _any_ mission that goes anywhere near that fucking hospital. Not just this one. This isn’t gonna be like, some _thing_ where you have to go face your fears—”

“Tucker.”

“—in the place where you almost _died_ —where _I almost watched you die_ —”

“ _Tucker._ ”

“What?”

“I’m not going on this mission.”

Tucker blinks. “You’re not?”

“No.” Wash turns off his datapad and tosses it to the side, regarding Tucker closely. “I’m not physically ready for a mission of that magnitude. I would slow you down, put you all in danger. I won’t do that regardless of what I want. And you’re _right._ I don’t want to go in that hospital ever again. The potential for it being a trigger is too high and that alone poses a risk. I’ve talked to Kimball and we decided that the best way for me to help is to have me work the comms. Help determine if the squads are heading in the right direction or not.”

Tucker glares at him, suspicious. “You’re not gonna start ranting on and on about how you have to _be there?_ To protect us?”

“Of course I want to be there to protect everyone,” Wash says, “but I trust _you_ to do that.”

He smiles at Tucker, all gentle and sure, as if there’s no doubt in his mind that Tucker can do this. All at once, his misplaced anger is gone, and he has to work around the lump in his throat. “You shouldn’t. I—I fucked up the last mission I was on.”

“I seem to recall you saving my life on the last mission you were on.”

“Before that,” Tucker mutters. He can’t even look at Wash. “You know. The first try. Where I got people killed because I was stupid. I keep doing stupid shit.”

Wash doesn’t answer at first, and Tucker picks at some of the paper on his desk, running his fingers through the blueprint hallways. “You keep _learning_ ,” he finally says, and Tucker glances up. “I wasn’t on that mission, but…I’m not convinced I wouldn’t have made the same calls. You just—you just have to try. Every time, you just have to try.”

It seems like ages ago that Wash first spoke those words to him, and Tucker sighs, resuming his tracing of the hallways on the map. The route to Wash is burned into his brain, every corridor, every turn, and he swallows hard as his finger stops on the room where they found him. “Think they were hiding,” he mutters to distract himself. “The civilians. Or maybe locked up. We didn’t see many people when we were there, but…we can’t just leave them in merc city, ya know?”

“I know,” Wash says softly.

Tucker jerks his gaze away. “I don’t even know if Kimball’s gonna _let_ me go. Or Carolina. They think it’s personal.”

“Is it?”

Tucker lifts his chin defiantly. “Yes. And if you’re gonna tell me not to go when you’ve been on like a _billion_ revenge quests—”

“I’m not going to tell you not to go,” Wash says calmly. “I’m just…going to tell you to come back.”

For the second time, Tucker finds himself speechless, swallowing hard. “Oh. Okay, then.”

Wash tilts his head. “You’re awfully tense, Tucker.”

“Of course I’m tense,” Tucker snaps, a little more harshly than he meant to. “You’re asking _Alexander the Architect_ to rip a bunch of hardware out of your head, and the mission is fucked as all hell! Not to mention that the Lieutenants are up to something for _sure_ —”

Wash makes a sympathetic noise. “They’re still distracted?”

“Yes—I mean no, not really.” Tucker pauses, thinking. “It’s like…like a… _calculated_ kind of distraction. I talk to them, but they’re not listening. But _then_ there’s this fucking laser focus on their eyes, and the way they’re walking around, exchanging these significant looks and….”

He stutters to a halt. “They’re not fucking around anymore,” Tucker realizes suddenly with a snap of his fingers. “ _That’s_ what it is. They’re distracted in training but it’s not because they aren’t paying attention. They’re—they’re paying _too much_ attention.”

“That’s exactly what it is,” Wash breathes, and Tucker feels faintly pleased with himself. “They’re trying to apply what they’re learning to…to _something_.”

“Something not good,” Tucker says, then rakes his hand through his dreads. “Fuck, dude, I thought they’d be chomping at the bit to go on this mission and they’re _not!_ They don’t want to go at all and it’s _so_ weird! I can’t figure it _out_ —”

“Okay,” Wash says, pushing to a stand and walking behind Tucker, hands resting on his shoulders. “I think it’s time for you to stop focusing on all of this and just relax.”

“I can’t relax,” Tucker grumps. “There’s too much going on and I can’t turn my fucking _brain_ off—”

He cuts himself off with a groan off relief as Wash’s thumbs dig into the knots just behind his shoulder blades. “Well, then,” Wash murmurs into his ear, “why don’t you let _me_ relax you a little bit?”

“I like the sound of that,” Tucker says, already a little breathless from the downright incredible massage Wash is giving him. “Can think of lots of ways you can relax me—”

He stops talking then, because Wash gives this happy sigh and presses a kiss to Tucker’s temple. “Hmm. So can I.”

“Oh. Okay,” Tucker says, giddy, but Wash doesn’t move to do anything else just yet and Tucker doesn’t really want him to. Wash’s hands feel so strong and warm on his shoulders, rolling out all the knots, and when they move up to rub at the cords of his neck he lets out another groan. “ _Shit_ Wash, that feels good.”

“You’re so tense,” Wash tells him reproachfully, fingertips smoothing along temples and Tucker’s closed eyelids. “You need a….a vacation.”

He says the word as if it’s a truly wild concept, and Tucker has to agree. “Only if you come with me.”

“That does sound nice,” Wash says wistfully. “Maybe someday.”

“It’ll happen,” Tucker says confidently. “We’ll find like, a lake with a romantic cottage or some shit, and we won’t do anything but sleep and fuck all day.”

“Can we go swimming, too? If there’s a lake?”

His words are filled with such longing that it makes Tucker’s heart twist, and he vows then and there that he is going to find some lake house cottage for a vacation if it’s the last thing he ever does. “We sure can. Fuck, you know what? I can’t even remember the last time I went swimming.”

“Me neither,” Wash says softly, and Tucker’s heart aches again. He snags Wash’s hand and presses his lips to it fiercely, and Wash laughs a little. “It’s—okay. It is. We’ll go swimming and make a new memory.”

“Fuck yeah we will,” Tucker mumbles against Wash’s palm.

Wash lets him stay there for a moment before tugging his hand away and resuming the massage. A comfortable silence falls and Tucker closes his eyes, focusing on the sensations, letting himself relax into the chair. He opens his eyes only when he feels Wash’s lips on his forehead, and realizes that Wash has slipped around to stand in front of him. He’s cupping Tucker’s face and it feels nice, his thumbs rubbing little circles into Tucker’s temples, so Tucker stays like that for a moment, their faces inches apart. Tucker likes it when Wash holds him like this, as if Tucker’s bones are made of glass—not fragile, or breakable, but simply beautiful, like a colored glass ornament one hardly dared to touch. _I love you,_ he’d said, voice reverent and eyes full of wonder, and Tucker’s heart stutters at the memory. Wash loved him. _Loved_ him.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” Tucker blurts, partly to quell some of his sudden nervous energy and partly because it’s fucking true. Wash’s eyes are so blue with that haircut that they shouldn’t be _allowed,_ and they widen slightly now before crinkling in a smile.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Wash murmurs, and then Wash is _kissing_ him, all slow and hungry, like Tucker is water in a barren desert. Tucker’s mouth falls open helplessly, hands winding in Wash’s shirt to tug him closer, closer, _closer._ His heart stutters as Wash obliges, settling himself in Tucker’s lap without breaking their kisses. Tucker can’t help but moan a little at the feel of Wash’s weight pressing against him, chest to chest, and he settles his hands on Wash’s hips, trying to tug him even closer.

Wash pulls back to look at him closely, hands tilting Tucker’s face up. “Is this okay? I want to make sure—”

“I’m okay,” Tucker says, and he is. Fuck, he _missed_ this, missed Wash’s weight in his arms, Wash’s lips on his own, missed the wordless connection as they both came undone. “Are you?”

“Yes,” Wash breathes, and then he’s kissing Tucker with even greater intensity, hands winding in his dreads and tugging. It’s all Tucker can do not to go to pieces right there, and he focuses on trying to yank Wash’s shirt over his head.

Wash finally pulls back enough to let him, and Tucker tosses the shirt impatiently aside. He traces his fingers over Wash’s abs, trails them across the scars, digs them into the knots of muscle that Wash has slowly been gaining back. Wash catches his hands and holds them there against his chest, and begins to roll his body, his hips grinding purposefully down into Tucker’s. Tucker tosses his head back with a groan, body moving eagerly against Wash, and Wash just keeps it up until Tucker is hard and panting and _wildly_ turned on.

“Fuck,” he gasps, as Wash rubs against him just right. “ _Wash,_ you look so hot…”

Wash slides off his lap to kneel in between Tucker’s legs, pushing them carefully apart to tug open the zipper on his fatigues. Tucker tries not to squirm, but his hips are already jerking desperately towards Wash’s mouth, seeking out that familiar, wet warmth that always makes him feel so amazing. He watches Wash closely, doing his best to shove down his own desire, searching for any signs of discomfort or uncertainty, but Wash merely gives him the world’s sweetest smile and takes Tucker’s cock into his mouth with a little hum of contentment.

Tucker lets out a ragged groan, head instantly lightening with just how _good_ it feels to have Wash’s mouth on him again. It takes a few moments for his hands to unclench, for his head to stop tossing, for his hips to wilt back onto the chair, and Wash keeps going, sets an even pace until Tucker settles into it. “Thank you,” Tucker mutters, the words slurring together slightly. “Thank…you…”

Wash’s eyes flick up at him, warm and pleased and crinkled in a smile as he works Tucker over. Wash doesn’t tease or make him beg today, although Tucker likes that too, just settles more comfortably onto his knees and takes his time. Tucker positively melts into the chair, one hand resting on the top of Wash’s head, his hips pumping almost lazily forward. There’s no sense of urgency in their movements, and Tucker watches, fascinated by how focused Wash is.  It’s something—something to do with pride, Tucker thinks a little dizzily, as Wash sucks him into the back of his throat, pride that he’s doing such a good job without being asked, and doing it perfectly at that.

“You’re so good to me, Wash,” Tucker manages to gasp, because Wash should _know_ that, should know how fucking incredible he makes Tucker feel. “So—fucking— _good_ —”

Wash _moans_ around him, moving his head a little faster, and Tucker almost loses his mind right then and there. He thrusts a little harder to meet Wash’s pace, stomach pulling and twisting with want. Tucker rests a head on the back of his skull and puts a little pressure there. “Can you—can you go a little deeper for me, baby?”

Wash does, allowing Tucker to push his cock even further into Wash’s mouth. He’s never had anyone give him head like Wash, _ever,_ and he does his best to convey this to Wash, although he doesn’t get much further than slurring, “Best head of m’life, _goddammit_ , Wash.” He thinks Wash gets the picture, though, from the way he moans around Tucker’s cock again, hands gripping tightly at Tucker’s hips to pull him in deeper still. “So good—on your knees—for me—”

He wants to savor this, but it’s too intense, and the sight alone, of Wash’s hands pulling Tucker’s hips forward again and again is too much. Wash keeps on sucking him down even after he comes, movements slowing in time with Tucker’s, until he pulls off carefully to clean him, actually licking his lips, and _holy shit_ that is never going to get old, _ever._

“Let me look at you,” Tucker mutters, leaning forward to cradle Wash’s face in his hands. Wash’s eyes are bright and pleased, lips parted and wet, chest heaving with big breathes. He’s hard, but makes no move to relieve himself, just looks up at Tucker. “Stand up,” Tucker whispers hoarsely. “Stand up and kneel on this chair. Gonna take care of you.”

Wash still does not stand, just rubs his hands up and down Tucker’s thighs. “I’m supposed to be taking care of _you_.”

“Let’s take care of each other,” Tucker says with a grin. He shimmies forward a little, dragging his foot up the inside of Wash’s leg to rub at his dick. “C’mon, let me get all up on that.”

Wash bites his lip, then pants a little as Tucker continues to rub his foot slowly up and down the outline of Wash’s swollen cock. “Hmmm,” Tucker says with a grin as Wash starts to press into him. “Could probably get you off just like this, huh?”

Tucker gets his other foot into the action and Wash groans, rutting more insistently against him as he drops his head into Tucker’s lap. “Whatever you want,” he gasps, hands tightening on Tucker’s hips. “I’ll—however you tell me to come—that’s how I’ll come—”

His words send an unexpected heat to Tucker’s cheeks, and he swallows hard, mind reeling with the implications of that. “Maybe next time,” Tucker says hoarsely. “I—I want my hands on you now. Stand up for me and—and put one of your knees on this chair, yeah?”

Wash does, climbing somewhat awkwardly onto the chair as Tucker stands. Tucker puts gentle pressure between his shoulder blades until his chest is pushed against the back, reaching around to undo Wash’s fatigues with the other. He tugs Wash’s pants down around his knees, stepping back for a moment to admire the sight. Wash jumps as Tucker moves forward and mimics his position, pressing their bodies flush together as his hand moves in between Wash’s legs to wrap around his cock. It’s the perfect position, allowing him to feel every inch of Wash trembling against him, and he feels more than hears the little hitch in Wash’s breath as he mouths at his neck. He likes it, relishing the way that Wash falls apart in his hands, head falling heavily against Tucker’s shoulder, hips snapping forward. “Tucker,” he gasps, writhing a little in his arms. “ _Tucker_ —”

“Go on,” Tucker whispers, lips pressed tight to Wash’s ear. “Go on, come for me, just like this—”

Less than a minute later Wash does, his whole body seizing up and relaxing as he spills out over Tucker’s hand. They both sigh in contentment at the exact same second, and then start laughing at the absurdity, and _yep_ , Tucker is absolutely fucked, from now until the end of time.

He finds a towel for them both to wipe off, then collapse in varying states of undress onto Wash’s bed. Wash’s arms come around him as Tucker presses his cheek into Wash’s chest, right above his pulse, and listens to his heart return to normal. Neither of them say anything for a while, content to stay wrapped up in this little bubble of happy and normal, but eventually Wash speaks. “Better?”

“So much better,” Tucker sighs, then tilts his face up to kiss Wash on the underside of his chin. “Thanks.”

“Hmmm,” Wash murmurs. He’s smoothing his hand up and down Tucker’s back and Tucker can already feel his eyes closing. “Go to sleep. We have a few hours.”

Tucker is drifting even as Wash is still speaking, his limbs heavy and loose tangled with Wash’s, face smushed up against Wash’s chest. Wash runs his other hand through Tucker’s hair, over and over, and that coupled with Wash’s heart beating steadily under his cheek, Tucker drifts off to sleep.

* * *

Tucker knocks on the door of Kimball’s office several hours later, relieved when her murmured, “Come in,” is almost immediate. She doesn’t look surprised to see Tucker there, but her eyebrows do lift when he raises his arm in an awkward salute.

“At ease,” she says cautiously, then gestures towards the chair in front of her. “Have a seat, Captain Tucker.”

Tucker does, sitting quietly while she gathers up the papers she was working on and stacks them off to the side. She’s using her helmet as a paperweight, pieces of her upper body armor scattered around the office, Kevlar undersuit unzipped to her waist. “What can I do for you?”

Tucker pauses. Despite the fact that he’s been rehearsing this conversation in his head all day, he still hasn’t found a good way to segue into it. “It’s about the mission,” he blurts finally. “The one to the hospital.”

Kimball doesn’t say anything, just watches him closely, and Tucker continues. “I know that you and Carolina are like, working out the details and shit, so--”

“Let me guess,” Kimball says, sitting back in her chair and folding her arms. “You want to go.”

“No.”

She blinks. “You don’t want to go?”

“No, I…” Tucker takes a deep breath. “I _do_ want to go. But I won’t if you guys don’t want me to.”

Kimball stares at him. “So what you’re _saying_ is that you’re going to respect my decisions? And stop organizing missions that I don’t agree with? And getting the entire army worked up into a frenzy?”

“Right. I—”

“Until the next time one of your friends is in danger, that is.”

Tucker opens and closes his mouth several times before gritting his teeth. “ _Well_ —”

“Suppose you don’t go on this mission,” Kimball says abruptly. “Suppose I tell you that I think it’s too personal for you, and order you to stay behind. Suppose that—say, Caboose goes, and gets taken as prisoner. What are you going to do?”

Tucker snorts. “Uh, throw a fucking party? You’re gonna have to do a little better than _Caboose_ if you’re trying to get me to say that I’m—”

“Suppose we get another video tape,” Kimball continues coolly, “And this time, it’s Caboose being tortured on camera by Felix. Suppose I tell you that our intelligence is inconclusive, and that we have to wait a few days before looking for him. You mean to tell me that you’re going to listen to me?”

“Of course not,” Tucker snaps, trying to ignore the sickening way his stomach has dropped from that mental image. “I’m gonna fucking raise hell, is what I’m gonna do! Don’t fucking _sit_ there and tell me that you wouldn’t do the same thing for one of your own—”

“Caboose _is_ one of my own,” Kimball says sharply. “So is Wash. But unlike _you,_ Tucker, I don’t have the luxury of going rogue and orchestrating missions for which I am wildly unprepared! Unlike you, I don’t have the luxury of taking those dearest to me and leaving this planet!”

Tucker remains silent as she pushes away from the desk to stand, striding over to her tiny office window in agitation. Her back is still to him when she speaks again. “You made a choice, Tucker. You showed everyone in this army where your priorities are—and not just _you,_ but everyone who left on that Pelican with you. You showed these soldiers, _again,_ that if it’s a choice between them and your friends, you would choose your friends every time—”

_“So what?!”_

She turns to face him then, and Tucker stands as well. “ _Of course_ I have people I’d put first! So do _you!_ So does _everyone!_ Those guys—” Tucker jabs his finger at the door, “—Caboose, and the Reds—that’s my fucking _family._ I’ve known them for _years._ We went through hell together. Wash, and Carolina—they’re family now, too. _Of course_ I’m gonna stick my neck out for them first! Look, I never _asked_ to be here! All I wanted was to find my kid, and go the fuck home, with my family! But…but I…you’re just not _getting it_ —”

“Explain it to me, then,” Kimball says quietly. “I’m _right here._ Explain it to me.”

“ _All I wanted_ ,” Tucker says, choosing his words carefully, “was to grab my family and go home. But…what I didn’t really get was that we don’t _have_ a home. And I was thinking— _this_ could be it. You know? This stupid planet that we never asked to be on _kinda_ feels like the closest thing to home I’ve ever had. And I—I want to stay. I want to fight for it. I want to fight _for_ you.”

Kimball doesn’t say anything, just continues to watch him with that piercing gaze, and Tucker continues. “I went for Wash,” he says deliberately, “and I’d do it again. I’m not gonna deny that. I’m not gonna deny that I’d go for Caboose’s annoying ass, either. Or any of my family’s. _But they’re not the only ones I’d go for._ I’d go for _you._ I’d go for fucking Palomo, or Jensen, or—or Ali. I _would._ And I’m gonna be here for as long as it takes to win this thing.”

He reaches for the sword at his belt, unclamps it, and sets it on Kimball’s desk. She tracks the motion with her eyes. “You have my sword,” Tucker says, absurdly, and then steps back to await her next words.

Several seconds of silence follow before Kimball throws back her head and laughs. It’s a nice sound, bright and cheerful like bells chiming, and Tucker realizes that he’s never heard the sound before. “Did you just…did you just quote _Lord of the Rings_ at me?”

“Aw, fuck,” Tucker says. He slumps back into his chair. “You’ve seen that ancient fucking movie too? _Man_ , here I was thinking that I was gonna get to pass off some super dramatic line as if I came up with it!”

She’s still grinning even as she rolls her eyes. “Nice try, Tucker. Of course I’ve seen Lord of the Rings.” Her face softens as she resumes her seat across from him as well. “It’s about hope. Books are better, though.”

“Never read ‘em.”

“You should. I’ll send them to you.”

She grabs her datapad, and Tucker hears his ping as she sends him the file. “Seriously, when am I gonna have time to read a book around here?”

“We won’t always be at war,” she says, smile fading. “Even though it often feels like it.”

“Yeah,” Tucker says with a sigh. “It sure fucking does.”

“Tucker…” Kimball sits up a little straighter. “No one forgets what you did for us at the radio tower, you know. You put your life on the line to get that message out, and you very nearly lost it. Your passion for the ones you love is not a bad thing. Sometimes you’re just…too close to a thing to see it clearly. You lose all focus when someone you love is in danger, and if you could just channel that passion into your focus…well. You would truly be a force to be reckoned with.”

“I guess that’s why I’m here,” Tucker says slowly. “I think—I think maybe I need you to tell me if I should go on this mission or not. I don’t want to fuck it up.”

“You said you want to go,” Kimball says, and Tucker nods. “Why?”

“Well…I’m not gonna pretend it’s not personal,” Tucker says. “Because it is. It just….feels right, that I go. They’re gonna be there, Felix and Locus and this _fucking_ Counselor. I want to go, for Wash and…and for me. And also, I’ve been there. I could help.”

“I see,” Kimball says. “Well. The more people we have who have been inside that hospital, the better. The fact that you are proficient with a close-quarters combat weapon is also a plus. I urge you to be careful, but….I think you’ll be a little _more_ careful than you usually are, this time.”

Tucker frowns. “Why?”

“Because Wash isn’t going,” Kimball says simply. “And that means you have something to come home to.”

Tucker isn’t sure why her words bring a lump to his throat, but he suddenly feels warm all over. “If I can help,” Tucker says, “then I should. I should be there. I should go.”

Kimball nods. “Then I think you’ve answered your own question, Tucker. I only have one more question for you.”

His grin is fading as soon as it began at the small smirk on her face. “Oh no, what?”

“How is your training with Dr. Tronosky going?”

* * *

“Alright, look, here’s the deal.”

Dr. Tronosky pauses in the middle of the unnecessarily dramatic kata he was in the middle of, turning to Tucker warily. “I’m…sorry?”

Tucker throws his gym bag on the floor and folds his arms, glaring at the doctor. “So, like, there’s this mission.”

“Yes, I know about the mission,” Dr. Tronosky says. “That’s why we’re training, isn’t it?”

“Whatever,” Tucker snaps. “Kimball says that Carolina wants to evaluate our training session today.”

“And this is a matter of some importance to you, I take it.”

“Yes, it is,” Tucker says fiercely. “’Cause the way Kimball talked about it, this is apparently some kind of test that I need to pass in order to be able to go.”

When Dr. Tronosky merely stares at him, Tucker sighs loudly. “She wants your opinion! Wants to know if I’ve improved in my training and shit! So, like…you know!”

“I’m afraid I don’t. Are you asking me to speak on your behalf?”

“I’m not asking you for anything,” Tucker says. “I’m just saying that this is kind of important. I don’t want you to do me any favors, just—if you could not be a major showoff for once when Carolina watches us spar—”

“I don’t show off!” Dr. Tronosky protests. “That’s ridiculous!”

Tucker falters in his rant, eyeing Dr. Tronosky with interest. It’s the closest he’s gotten out of a reaction from him, and he pushes a bit further. “Oh, _please._ Like you don’t get all extra flashy on purpose when there’s other people in the room—”

“Ridiculous,” Dr. Tronosky says again. “I wouldn’t have to _get flashy_ if you would just focus on the lesson and—”

“Hey, _fuck you,_ all I’ve been doing is focusing!”

“Really, if anyone is training for attention, I think it’s _you_ —”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you _do_ like to put on a show.”

“I do not!”

“Ahem.”

They turn as one to see Carolina standing in the doorway, arms folded across her chest. “Is there a problem in here?”

“No problem,” Dr. Tronosky says smoothly. “Did you want to join our training session?”

Tucker turns to glare at him, but Carolina shakes her head. “Not just yet. I’d like to see how Tucker’s doing, though. Maybe tomorrow morning I can watch you spar for a few rounds?”

This time, Dr. Tronosky casts him a side-long glance and Tucker sighs. It’s now or never. “Tomorrow’s fine. Can’t fucking wait.” He keeps his eyes determinedly forward. “You know how much I like to _put on a show_.”

“That I do,” Carolina deadpans, Tucker huffs as she leaves.

The two of them begin sparring, their only words related to the session. When they finally stop for a water break, Tucker sighs. “Look,” he says in an undertone. “I’m not saying to go easy on me during our match tomorrow. I’m just saying that this mission is really important to me and—”

Dr. Tronosky sighs. “Captain Tucker, I must be frank and say that if you want me to put a good word for you, then ‘I want to go on this mission’ shouldn’t be the logic you use to convince me.”

Tucker pauses in his movements. “Wait, what? Why?”

“Because,” Dr. Tronosky says simply. “I don’t want you to go on this mission.”

“Why the fuck not?” Tucker asks, then hastens to drop his voice when half the training room looks over suspiciously. “I mean. Why not?”

“My reasons are entirely selfish, it’s true,” Dr. Tronosky says, blithely unaware of the fact that Tucker is two seconds away from throttling him, “but, well. It would be very sad if Wash were to lose the love of his life.”

Tucker isn’t sure what he was expecting the doctor to say, but it sure as fuck wasn’t that. He sputters for a moment before snapping, “You don’t know that I’m the love of his life.”

He wishes his voice didn’t sound quite so breathless when he said it, but Dr. Tronosky merely shrugs. “True,” he concedes. “It’s just the way he looks at you. And you look at him. It’s nice to see.”

“I’m not going on a suicide mission, you know,” Tucker says, unnerved. “Like, this isn’t a big deal. It’s just a mission.”

“Alright.”

“It _is_.”

“As I said, my reasons are selfish,” Dr. Tronosky says. “I’m very fond of these people, you see.”

“And of Wash.”

“And of Wash. And of _you,_ believe it or—”

“Was Wash your one?”

Dr. Tronosky frowns, titling his head. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You know…your _one_.” Tucker sighs when Dr. Tronosky continues to stare at him blankly. “I was on this mission nonce, in the desert.  It’s something that one of the doctors there said to me. That every doctor has their one. Like, that one patient that changed everything for them, or drove their career forward, or ended it, or whatever. So. Was Wash yours?”

“Yes,” Dr. Tronosky says slowly. “Yes. He was.”

“Okay,” Tucker says. “Yeah. Okay. That’s what I thought.”

“May I ask _why_ —”

“I know that Wash asked you to take out his implants.”

Dr. Tronosky pauses. “He did, yes.”

“Right.” Tucker mumbles, then clears his throat, voice coming stronger. “Right, so. You guys are both super dramatic, so you’re probably looking at this major fucking coincidence that you found each other again as some sort of _bizarre twist of fate_.”

He makes little quotation marks with his fingers when he says it, and he can tell from the look Dr. Tronosky gives him that he’s not far off. “Well…I certainly wouldn’t call it a _coincidence_ —”

“Well, I would,” Tucker interrupts. “See like, that’s my point. It _is_ a coincidence. And you think it’s not.”

“Okay….”

“Ugh!” Tucker throws up his hands, agitated. “You’re not getting it!”

“Explain, then,” Dr. Tronosky says patiently, and Tucker feels, against his will, a rush of affection for this stupid doctor who, he realizes all at once, has always waited patiently for him to be able to explain himself. It gives Tucker pause, allows him time to try to gather his thoughts, and the doctor waits.

“It’s like,” Tucker says, and pauses, thinking. “Okay. So you believe in fate, _fine._ Whatever. You’re probably wondering, okay, if this is fate, then why the fuck am I here? Why did Wash and I meet again? What’s the _point?_ ”

“I am wondering that, yes.”

Tucker nods, encouraged. “So, Wash asked you to take out his implants. You’re probably thinking, great! This is it! This is why I’m here. _This_ is the point.”

“And…you view this as a bad thing?”

“Fuck yeah I view it as a bad thing!”

“May I ask why?”

“Because,” Tucker says, frustrated, “because fate is stupid! Destiny is stupid! ‘Cause if you think that this is your destiny or whatever, then you might do it _anyway_ , even if you _shouldn’t!_ And if you do it, you might kill the—the _love of my life,_ or whatever.” Tucker once again makes little quotation marks when he says it, but a flush heats his cheeks nonetheless.

At any rate, Dr. Tronosky’s face lights up in understanding. “I see.”

“If Wash wants you to take that shit out of his head, then fine,” Tucker says. “I don’t _like_ it, but _fine._ That’s Wash’s business. Some doctor fucking around in his head trying to fulfill his grand destiny? That _is_ my business. Know why? Because I’m _making_ it my goddamn business.”

Dr. Tronosky is nodding as if what Tucker’s saying makes perfect sense, and Tucker can’t decide if it annoys him or not. “You don’t have to worry about that, Tucker.”

“Well, guess what? I _am_ worrying about it, so—”

“Do you know Wash reminds me of my own son?”

Tucker rolls his eyes a little. “Of _course_ he does. Okay, see, _this is my point_ —”

“In lots of little ways,” Dr. Tronosky says absently. “They look nothing alike, but…they’re both loyal. Inquisitive. They both hated doctors. They even have the same first name.”

Against his will, that sends a chill down Tucker’s spine. “They do?”

As Dr. Tronosky nods, Tucker realizes that he has no clue what Wash’s first name is. It seems ridiculous now that this thought hasn’t occurred him previously, because of course Agent Washington wasn’t his name. He doesn’t know Carolina’s, either.

Tucker shoves down the question of whether or not that bothers him for later, as Dr. Tronosky is still traipsing down memory lane. “It was for that reason that he was one of the few who gave me pause when I was wiring you all with your implants. The name thing, I mean, and the fact that he was… _nervous_ , about the procedure. He wasn’t the only one, but…I remember lying awake that night and wondering if he had a point—if there was something to be afraid of.”

“Okay, I didn’t ask for your whole life story—”

“He was alone in the infirmary when the ship went down,” Dr. Tronosky continues, and it’s out of curiosity now that Tucker quiets. “It was instinct, more than anything, that made me run for him. A _doctor’s_ instinct, you see. I tell you this because there was nothing heroic or righteous about what I did. I was just…following blind instinct. But the room—the infirmary…it was burning, when I walked in.”

A beat of silence, then—

“It was _burning_ ,” Dr. Tronosky says again, looking Tucker directly in the eyes for the first time. Tucker isn’t sure if it’s the intensity of his gaze or his words that suck the warmth right from the room, but he feels an awful chill run down his spine. This was important. He doesn’t know how, or why, but he knows that it’s _important._

“ _My_ infirmary was burning, and when I walked in and saw that fire….it was as if something in me shifted. Or broke. Or mended itself back together. I’m still not sure which…”

 

“The point is,” Dr. Tronosky says, “the _point_ is, my infirmary was burning. The point is that I was supposed to be a _scientist,_ and I stopped asking questions when they mattered the most. The point is that you’re right. Wash was my one. I only knew that I had to get Wash out of there. And now, Captain Tucker, I’m going to tell you something about a doctor’s _one_ that I suspect your friend in the desert did not.”

Tucker lifts an eyebrow. “And what’s that?”

“For most doctors, their one _becomes_ so because they didn’t make it. They didn’t survive, because the doctor wasn’t good enough, or miscalculated, or made a bad call. It happens to all of us, of course, far more than we’d like it to, but there’s something different about _this_ particular patient.” Dr. Tronosky shrugs a little. “So, they become that doctor’s one. Do you understand?”

“Not really, dude.”

Dr. Tronosky smiles a little. “I spent years thinking that the patient who changed everything for me had died in that hospital we airlifted him to. It was bombed out, you see, one of the last gasps of the Covenant in the war. I thought about Wash’s case quite often—what I could’ve done differently, how I could begin to repair the damage I’d done.” He laughs a little. “Only to find, all these years later, that he wasn’t dead, after all! That my wanderings had led me to him, and given me, though I did not deserve it, a chance to help him once more.”

“So,” Tucker says slowly, “what you’re saying is…”

“What I’m saying is that you don’t have to worry,” Dr. Tronosky says. “I’m not going to fuck this up. If I can remove his implants, then I will. If I can’t, then I won’t. You have my word on that.”

Tucker sighs loudly, but it’s as if a weight has been lifted from his back. “Well, shit man, why didn’t you just say that in the first place? Why did you have to get all _dramatic_ about it?”

Dr. Tronosky grins at him, even as he reaches for his helmet. “Because it’s a _story,_ Tucker. Everyone loves a good story.”

“I thought no one went back for him,” Tucker says, and Dr. Tronosky pauses with the helmet raised halfway to his head. “In Freelancer. I mean, it was your fucking fault that he was there in the first place, but….I always thought no one went for him in that infirmary. That he was found by accident. But, uh. You went for him, so.”

“It was only instinct,” Dr. Tronosky reminds him. “It wasn’t—I wasn’t trying to do anything….noble, or brave. I wasn’t even trying to do anything _right._ I was just following my instinct.”

“It still led you to Wash,” Tucker mutters. “You still went, and you got him out of there. So. There’s that.”

“There’s that,” Dr. Tronosky echoes, and they sit there in silence for a moment. It’s not an _I’m sorry_ and it’s not an _I forgive you,_ and Tucker isn’t sure those words would ring true anyway.

It’s something, though, and it’s enough to propel Tucker to his feet and turn to the doctor, offering a hand. “Wanna go one more round?”

Surprise flickers across the doctor’s face, but he re-seals his helmet, taking the hand that Tucker has offered. “One more round sounds good.”

“You are ready, you know,” Dr. Tronosky says, once they’re facing off. “For this mission.”

“Yeah?”

“So long as you keep your wits about you, you’ll be fine. Do try to do that, will you?” Tucker can hear the sudden smile in his voice as the doctor re-angles his sword. “I’d like to hear about this thrilling desert mission when you get back.”

Tucker grins as well. “It’s a pretty damn good story. Better than yours, for sure.”

“I look forward to it,” Dr. Tronosky says, and as their swords clack together, Tucker relaxes into the rhythm that has become, against all odds, not only soothing and familiar, but welcome as well.

* * *

It is ten hours to the city of Imphonia.

  
Tucker knows them well by now, this being his third journey. He sits calmly against the wall and keeps time in his head- one hour, two hours, five, eight. The New Republic and Federalist soldiers chatter nervously, but Tucker is quiet. He speaks only when he is spoken to, offering advice when asked, reassurances when needed. When Donut's fist begins to bounce nervously on his knee, Tucker puts a hand out to steady it. The fifth time he does this, Donut latches on tightly and does not let go.  
  
He cannot feel the heat of Donut's palm through their gloves, but he feels the weight of it, and allows it to anchor him. There's a tiny, terrified corner of his brain, screaming at him that this is madness, that he cannot go back to that place, to that room, to Felix. The tiny, terrified part wants to haul Grif away from the controls and turn this Pelican right back around and go home.   
  
Tucker isn't sure if home means Armonia or Wash or both, but whenever he thinks the word— _home_ — it steels his resolve. He cannot go home, to the sunny little courtyard where he helped train the cadets when the weather was nice, to the alleyway with the watermelon stand, to Wash's open arms and warm bed that faced the window. He cannot go home because home is a thing that he must protect now, with everything he has. He must banish the tiny terrified thing, and he must become harder, and stronger, than everything that he fears.  
  
So he finds his anchors: Donut's hand, holding tightly to his own, and Wash's voice, steady and unfaltering in his ear. Wash doesn't say much just yet- merely confirms mission directives when Carolina asks, or volunteers information about a specific hallway. But he does not log off, and even when there is silence on the team radio, he switches over to Tucker's private frequency.  
  
When the two of them speak, it is of light, inconsequential things. The weather in Armonia. The way the stars look outside of the Pelican. Occasionally, Wash's voice will soften as he says, _I believe in you,_ and Tucker's will harden as he responds, _You know I'm coming home, right?_  
  
_I know,_ Wash says, every time. _I know you are._  
  
Tucker holds tight to his anchors. Donut's hand, wrapped around his fingers. Wash's breath, steady like the sea. Carolina's footsteps, pacing the Pelican. Epsilon's avatar, bright and blue like a flickering firefly. Grif's incessant humming, coming from the cockpit.  
  
He holds tight to his anchors, and he tells the tiny terrified thing inside of him to rest. He folds it up into something even smaller and tucks it away, allows himself to become strong and hard and unbreakable.  
  
Tucker holds tight to his anchors, and by the time Grif lands the Pelican, he is ready. 

* * *

 _< Left! I _said _to turn down the hallway to the_ left! _>_

Tucker grits his teeth in frustration. “It’s _not_ the left hallway, Church! I’ve been here before too, _remember?_ ”

 _< And I’m a computer program, _remember?! _Computer program trumps good memory! >_

Tucker’s opening his mouth to respond furiously when Donut tugs at his elbow. “Wait, Tucker, I think he’s right.”

 _< He is.>_ Wash’s voice is faintly apologetic. _< You two are going the wrong way.>_

 _< Told you so,>_ Epsilon mutters.

“Okay, but you don’t have to be such a _dick_ about it—”

_< Tucker, will you two just hurry the fuck up and get over here? We need back-up!>_

_< I’ve got it!>_ Carolina insists breathlessly for the fifth fucking time. _< Just give me five minutes.>_

 _< Yeah, sure C.>_ Epsilon drops his voice. _< Just hurry.>_

 _< I can still _hear _you, Church! >_

Tucker rolls his helmet at Donut as they double their pace to the southwest quadrant. The past six hours since they’d landed have been filled with what can only be described as a relentless back and forth. Their side had had the advantage of the surprise, but Charon’s forces had the advantage of sheer numbers.

 _Too bad half of them are useless,_ Tucker thinks now as he runs his sword through a merc who all but charges into him. A far amount of the prisoners they’d picked up off the _UNSC Tartarus_ had clearly still not bothered to learn how to use a gun.

The thought has no sooner drifted across Tucker’s mind than he quashes it down. He’d been thinking the exact same thing the last time they’d fought these fuckers in bulk, two seconds before Wash’s labored voice had come over the radio, telling them he was pinned down.

 _And look how that turned out, Tucker_ thinks, taking out another soldier with a particularly vicious slice of his sword, torquing his hips just like Carolina had taught him, just like Dr. Tronosky had refined. Perhaps all that training was paying off, after all. Good. The more of these assholes he’s able to take out, the better off they’ll all be.

 _< Be careful, Tucker,>_ Wash cautions over the radio, as if he knows what Tucker’s thinking. _< Don’t get cocky.>_

Tucker spares his HUD a glance and sees that Wash is speaking only to him. “I got this, Wash.”

 _< I know,>_ Wash says. _< You and Donut are almost there. Watch each other’s backs, Carolina and Sarge are significantly outnumbered.>_

Unfortunately, Wash isn’t exaggerating, and Tucker winces as he and Donut round the corner. Carolina is zipping around the room, taking out as many soldiers as she can, a nice counterpart to Sarge, who is standing in the middle of the room picking off mercs with his shotgun. “Well, it’s about time!” he hollers as he spots Tucker and Donut. “What took you two so long?”

“You know what I like to say about being fashionably late, Sarge!” Donut says brightly, as he charges forward. Tucker watches him for a moment, making sure that he doesn’t need cover, before zeroing in on Carolina.

It takes him a while to reach her and when he does, she spins around, pressing her back to his so automatically that Tucker almost stumbles in surprise. “Is the northwest quadrant clear?”

“Uh—yes, it’s clear…” Tucker gives his head a shake. “How we doing in here?”

“Not great,” Carolina says grimly, “they just keep coming…”

It takes everything Tucker has not to respond with a gleeful _bowchickabowwow,_ but he’s too pleased at the way Carolina is trusting him to cover her. “Any sign of Felix or Locus?”

“None,” Carolina says thinly. The two of them spin away for a few breathless moments, each taking out another merc, before pressing back together. “The plan’s working so far, although I’m sure they’re on their way back.”

“Right.” They’d picked this day deliberately, a day when they’d known Felix and Locus were going to off on another mission. The upside was that they’d had six hours to rescue as many civilians as they could—which, by Tucker’s count, was a fair amount.

The downside was that they were probably going to be pissed as all hell when they finally arrived. “Do we know where the final group of nurses are?”

“According to Dr. Grey, we’re awfully close.” Another break in their conversation as the fighting intensifies. “She’s a few rooms down patching up Captain Patil’s leg. Once we get through the hallway, we’ll meet up with her, and she’ll lead us to them. Wash, you’re _sure_ she’s got the right location?”

 _< We’re sure, boss,>_ Wash says, faintly exasperated. _< Simmons has control of the cameras. He’s going through them one by one to see if we’ve missed anything, but there’s a large group exactly where Dr. Grey predicted.>_

“Great,” Carolina says. “So that means that Dr. Grey can go back on the Pelican and wait there like she was supposed to—”

 _< Dr. Grey is most certainly _not _going to wait on the Pelican_! > Dr. Grey herself chirps. _< Dr. Grey has _all _sorts of patients to patch up, which is why Dr. Grey went on this mission! >_

_< Patients that can be patched up on the Pelican!>_

“Stop worrying your red head o’hair about the good doctor!” Sarge says, in between shotgun blasts. “I know you ain’t thrilled that she’s here-”

“She’s a _civilian_ and this is a _military mission!_ ”

Tucker groans, and behind him Carolina huffs. “Can we _please_ stop fucking arguing about this?! Grey is already here. She’s gonna lead us to the civilians. Let’s just let her lead us to them and get the fuck _out_ of here!”

Carolina doesn’t respond, which Tucker takes to mean that he’s won until the subject comes up again five minutes from now. Carolina had nearly yelled herself hoarse when Dr. Grey had materialized right in the middle of a hot zone three hours prior to patch up a nasty knife wound in Sarge’s back. She’d refused to leave, and had been tracking them ever since, providing directions and medical care when needed.

Tucker breathes a quick sigh of relief as they dispatch the last soldier, and begin moving out into the hallway. “Two turns to the right and the third door down,” Carolina says tersely. “We need to be quick. That’s a lot of people we need to get out.”

 _< Fifteen,>_ Simmons supplies. _< There are fifteen nurses.>_

“Huh,” Tucker says thoughtfully. “Fifteen nurses. You know, I saw a porno once that started just like that—”

_< Tucker, now is not the time!>_

“Alright, alright,” Tucker grumps. “Just trying to lighten the mood.”

_< By talking about porn?!>_

“Yes, Simmons! You know, sex is proven to reduce stress and—”

 _<_ Sex _is proven to reduce stress! Not discussions of porn in the middle of a fucking mission! >_

“We could always test that theory!”

They turn to see Dr. Grey leaning in a doorway, observing Sarge with interest. Tucker shudders. “Okay, you know what? Forget it. Forget that I ever said anything. At all. Ever.”

“Well, we’ll put a pin in it,” Dr. Grey says cheerfully. She turns back into the room, where Perry is hefting an unconscious Patil onto his shoulders. “Perry is going to take our friend Patil back to the Pelican. He went unconscious from the blood loss, but we got that leg patched up nicely!”

Tucker eyes Patil. “You need back-up?”

“I’ve got it,” Perry says, voice like steal, and Tucker can imagine perfectly his expression: the determined slant of his eyebrows, jaw clenched tight. He remembers Wash’s weight on his own shoulders, as he’d carried him down this very hallway, and the set of his own jaw as he’d carried him to safety.

“Radio in when you’re on the plane,” Tucker says now.

Perry nods. “I’ll meet up with team Charlie on the lower level.”

Tucker watches him go for a moment before turning back to the others. Carolina sighs as Dr. Grey starts down the hallway, but she doesn’t protest. “Alright,” she says instead. “Dr. Grey, are we going the right way?”

“We most certainly are!” Dr. Grey says. “Oh, goodness, I made so many memories in this very hallway! You know, I remember this one time—”

She never finishes her story. The five of them round the hallway and come to an immediate halt, weapons up, as with a flicker of his camo unit, Locus presents himself.

 _< What?>_ Wash’s voice tightens just a bit. _< What’s going on?>_

“Locus,” Tucker mutters. “Don’t freak out.”

_< I’m not freaking out.>_

Locus is standing there so dramatically, that Tucker isn’t surprised in the slightest when Carolina drops her voice and says, with equal theatrics, “I’ll handle this.”

“Of course you will.” Tucker sighs. “Okay, how about you go left and I—”

“No,” Carolina says immediately. “I _said_ I’ll handle this.”

“Okay, _no offense,_ but the last time you faced off against one of these fucks you barely made it back, so—”

“Tucker…” Carolina switches over to a private frequency with him. “I need you to go with the others.”

Tucker scoffs. “Oh, please! Don’t fucking patronize me.”

“I’m not patronizing you,” Carolina snaps. “Those are the facts. Felix is around here somewhere. You deal with _him._ I’ll deal with _this_.”

Tucker pauses. “Wait, _really?_ ”

“Yes, really!”

And then Carolina’s gone, speeding down the hallway. “Fuck it, let’s go!” Tucker yells, and the rest of them go charging off as well. Carolina’s sudden attack has caught Locus off guard enough that they’re able to pass. Dr. Grey leads the way, tearing down the hallway until she reaches the room where the nurses are supposed to be trapped.

She tugs on the door with an uncharacteristic urgency. As she whirls around with an even more uncharacteristic panic, Sarge is already holding out his pistol. She takes it, clearing her throat. “Excuse me, please! Away from the door, please!”

Tucker winces as she empties three shots into the lock and then kicks the whole fucking door in. “We’ve _come,_ ” she says, with an excess of drama that would put Carolina to shame, “to _rescue you_.”

There’s a moment of silence, and Tucker peers in the room to see the bewildered nurses staring at them. Dr. Grey turns to hand the pistol back to Sarge, who quietly mag-clamps it to her waist instead. “Was that okay? Oh, I’ve always wanted to do that!”

“ _Clearly_ ,” Tucker mutters, but Sarge just fucking touches the side of her helmet like he’s stroking her hair and taps his forehead to hers.

“Emmy,” he says, voice husky like they’re in a romance movie, “ _okay_ ain’t quite the word I’d use to describe you.”

“Oh?” she asks, nothing short of breathless. “And what word would that be?”

“Darlin’,” he says, “you’re a goddamn _miracle_.”

 _< Look, I don’t mean to interrupt,>_ Wash says flatly over the radio, as Donut sniffs and presses his hands to his heart, _< but you guys really need to get moving.>_

“If you don’t wanna interrupt, then don’t!” Sarge grumps, but he lets go of Dr. Grey and cocks his shotgun. “Alright, civilians, you heard the lady! This is a rescue mission, and a _damn_ good one at that!”

The nurses are eyeing them with a mixture of apprehension and intrigue, until one of them squints closely. “Emmy? Dr. _Emily_ Grey? Is that you?”

“Cecilia?” Dr. Grey exclaims, and Tucker tries his very best not to tap his foot impatiently as a whole bunch of tearful reunions break out.

“Yeah, I’m not trying to be _rude_ ,” he says through gritted teeth when one of them pulls out her datapad to start exchanging pictures, “but I gotta agree with Wash on this one. Can we save this part for _later?_ ”

“Yes yes, quite right,” Dr. Grey says hastily. “This _is_ a rescue mission, after all!”

“It sure is!” Donut says. “Right this way, ladies and gentleman!”

The nurses have no sooner begun following them down the hallway than a loud _KA-BOOM_ makes everyone freeze. Tucker exchanges an anxious look with Donut before snapping open the team radio. “Carolina—”

 _< I’m fine!>_ she says. _< Did you find the civilians?>_

“Yes, but—”

_< Then get them to the rendezvous point! I’ll be right behind you!>_

One moment, Tucker is opening his mouth to reply and the next, he’s flat on his back, blinking dazedly up at the ceiling. He’s trying to figure out why he’s laying down and why it’s so smoky and why his ears are ringing, but his limbs aren’t listening and his brain is working far too slowly. A bright red helmet appears in his vision, tapping at his visor, but Tucker can’t hear the words he’s saying.

As the soldier— _Sarge,_ Tucker thinks wildly, _the soldier is Sarge_ —gets an arm under his shoulders to lever him up, Tucker’s stomach turns. He pushes Sarge away, unfastens his helmet with trembling fingers, and barely manages to get it off his head before he vomits all over the ground.

Sound returns to him at once: the distant voices of the nurses, the incessant blaring of an alarm, and Sarge’s voice, booming in his ear. “Great galloping gargoyles, it was just a little explosion! Quite your belly-aching and get on your feet!”

“A _little_ explosion,” Tucker mutters, then grasps frantically at Sarge’s arms as the words set in. “Sarge—is everyone—are they—”

“Everyone’s fine!” Sarge says impatiently. He picks up Tucker’s helmet and shoves it back on his head, ignoring Tucker’s sputtering. “’Cept you, apparently! Let’s move it!”

This time, Tucker allows Sarge to pull him to his feet. He gets his team radio back on time to hear Wash saying, _< Captain Tucker, if you don’t report in—>_

“I’m fine!” Tucker hastens to assure him. Wash’s voice is cold and efficient, which must mean he’s really freaked out. “I’m okay, just got knocked out.”

“Told you he was fine about fifteen times!” Sarge grumbles. He adjusts Tucker’s arm around his shoulders as they begin to walk. “Everyone’s all present and accounted for!

Tucker’s head is still a little woozy, so it takes him a moment to realize that they are, in fact, alone. “Uh, where the fuck is everyone, then?”

“Then went on ahead! I told ‘em not to worry, I’d drag the lazy Blue out m’self if I had to!”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Thanks, Sarge.”

“You can thank me by picking up your feet a bit—”

They both tense as a shape materializes through the mist, but it’s only Dr. Grey. “There you are!” she says, voice cheerful if not a little higher than normal.

Sarge clucks his tongue as she scampers to his other side, pistol drawn. “Darlin’, you’re supposed to be up ahead with the others!”

“I know, but you boys were taking an awfully long time and Captain Tucker wasn’t answering on his radio, so—”

“Alright, alright. Keep that gun drawn, you hear?”

If Tucker didn’t know Sarge so well, he’d miss the faint undertone of worry in his voice. “I’m okay,” Tucker says lowly, as Sarge glances behind them. “Don’t worry—”

“Didn’t say I was worried, Blue!”

“Y’know, you _really_ should be.”

The burst of gunfire at the end of the hallway has all three of them trying to cover each other, weapons held high. In the end, Sarge wins, sweeping both Tucker and Dr. Grey behind him, shotgun cocked as he stares down the barrel. Tucker’s stomach plummets as he makes out the unmistakable shape and color of Felix’s armor through the mist—

And another grenade, held in his hand.

Sarge fires, but it’s too late. The three of them turn to run, placing as much distance between them and the grenade as possible. The moment the make it around the corner, Tucker wraps Dr. Grey in his arms, pressing them both into the wall as the grenade goes off. There’s something pressed against his shoulders and he thinks that Sarge is covering the two of them, but he doesn’t look up, just holds onto Dr. Grey as tightly as he can.

He jolts out of a half-unconscious daze to the sound of Dr. Grey whimpering, to the feel of her squirming out of his arms. Tucker lets her go, turning to see her crawling woozily to where Sarge is lying a few feet away. Dr. Grey rolls him over into her lap, and Tucker’s breath catches in his throat at the sight of his left side, shredded and bloody from the shrapnel from the grenade. “Just a little papercut!” Dr. Grey says brightly. She reaches into one of her armor pouches for a canister of biofoam, depressing it neatly into the largest of Sarge’s wounds. “Not to worry, Ollie, it’s nothing but a bug bite!”

Sarge doesn’t even flinch when the biofoam puffs out to fill the wound, and Tucker realizes that he’s unconscious. He swallows hard, but Dr. Grey’s hands don’t so much as tremble. “Grey—”

“We might need to carry him out of here, Tucker,” Dr. Grey says calmly. “Think you’re up for it?”

“Oh, _I_ think not.”

Tucker’s still blinking the stars from his eyes, and by the time he sees the shape breaking through the smoke behind Dr. Grey, it’s too late. She doesn’t flinch as Felix presses the barrel of his gun into the back of her head and growls, “Stop what you’re doing.”

“I will not,” Dr. Grey says. “No, I most _certainly_ will not.”

Tucker’s heart leaps straight into his throat as Felix cocks the gun, pressing it harder still to her helmet. “I said, _stop what you’re doing_.”

“Just a few more to go,” Dr. Grey says determinedly to Sarge instead. “Just—”

Tucker barely manages to cut off a scream as Felix moves his gun, firing into the ground just inches away from where Sarge is lying. There is no time for screaming, no time for panic, no time for the lingering nausea he feels. There is only time for action.

So he moves, leaping straight over Dr. Grey and Sarge, fingers fastening around Felix’s wrist and forcing his gun up. Felix fires half the clip into the ceiling as the two of them crash to the ground. There’s a terrifying moment where the gun fires so close to Tucker’s head that the bullet scrapes across his helmet. He keeps moving, keeps struggling, pulls his fist back and drives it straight into Felix’s solar plexus. It’s enough time for him to draw his own gun, but Felix is half on his feet and kicks it away, sending Tucker’s gun smacking into the wall where it lands, far out of his reach. He manages to draw his sword, but before he can so much as ignite it, Felix makes it fully to his feet, pressing the barrel of the gun against Tucker’s visor.

“Uh uh uh,” Felix says, as Tucker makes to raise his sword. “You turn that thing on and I paint the floor with your brains. And you, Dr. Crazy, _drop the fucking gun_. Now.”

Tucker’s back is to Dr. Grey and Sarge, but he hears the unmistakable clatter of a gun hitting the ground. Felix refocuses his attention, and for a moment, neither of them say anything. Tucker’s breath sounds louder than usual in his ears, and it takes him a moment to realize that he’s hearing Wash breathe as well. Wash doesn’t say anything and neither does Tucker, but he listens hard to the sound of that breath, allows it to become his center. Wash isn’t here. Wash is home, and _safe,_ because Tucker made _sure_ of that.

Whatever happens, Wash is safe, and Caboose is with him.

Felix is apparently incapable of letting a dramatic silence sit for more than a few seconds, because he tilts his head to the side and chuckles a little. “Well, well, well. Things were a _little_ different the last time you were on your knees for me, weren’t they, Captain Tucker?”

Tucker flushes, hand tightening on the hilt of his sword as he forces himself not to look away. “Feeling a little _nostalgic_ , Felix?”

“Maybe a little,” Felix muses, then sighs. “Gotta say, I’m pretty pissed you guys trashed the place. I made some awfully good memories in this hospital.”

“Yeah, I’ll _bet_ you did,” Tucker says tightly. He switches on his radio. “Grey, if this doesn’t work, be ready to shoot this fucker and get Sarge out of here.”

He snaps the channel off before anyone can protest, in time to hear Felix say slyly, “You know, _Wash_ isn’t quite as expressive as you, but I really enjoyed breaking him into little pieces. Too bad I didn’t get to do it my way, but ah well. There will be _plenty_ of time to break all of your obnoxious friends into pieces and I’m going to relish every single moment—”

It’s almost impossible to stay present and focused, to not let Felix’s words burrow into his skull and take root. He focuses on Wash’s breath again, focuses on the way that Wash is not muttering instructions at him because he knows, he _knows_ that Tucker can handle this.

Because Wash believes in him.

Because somewhere along the way, Tucker has learned to believe in himself.

He ignores Felix’s words, and lets him make the same mistake that he’s made so many times: the mistake of underestimating them. Tucker has made his share of mistakes, but he will _not_ make this one—not here, not now. He will not make this mistake, of allowing Felix to rile him up, because he’s tired, and hungry, and he wants to go home.

He does, after all, have someone there waiting for him.

So Tucker grits his teeth and waits for the perfect opportunity, for Felix’s attention to falter just slightly. When it does, Tucker does not say anything. There is no time for _words,_ as Felix has failed to learn. There is only time for action. With no warning, Tucker ignites his sword, the plasma blade burning cleanly through the floor at Felix’s feet. Felix jolts slightly, looking down, but Tucker continues cutting, dragging the sword until he’s cut nearly a full circle around Felix. By the time Felix clues in on what’s happening, he lets out a yell, firing his gun, but Tucker dodges out of the way, throwing his body into a roll until he comes to a rest at Dr. Grey’s side.

He lets out his breath in a whoosh, and allows himself five seconds to shake as Dr. Grey’s hand comes up to grip his shoulder. “Holy shit.”

Wash lets out his breath too, a slow, reverent thing. _< Oh, Tucker.>_

“It’s okay,” Tucker babbles. “It’s okay, I did it Wash, I’m okay, I’m—I’m gonna get us all out of here now, okay. I’m gonna do it, okay?”

 _< I know,>_ Wash says, as Tucker leans down and begins to heft Sarge up onto his shoulders. _< I know you are.>_

* * *

He can hardly dare to believe it, when he boards the Pelican and Carolina tells him that they didn’t lose a single soldier. “Plenty of injuries,” she says wryly, as Donut lets out a _tsk_ and presses a fresh wad of gauze against the gash in her temple, “but no deaths.”

Her smile fades slightly as she glances once more at where Sarge is stretched out on the floor of the Pelican, his upper body armor completely stripped away. Dr. Grey is kneeling at his side, gingerly picking the pieces of shrapnel out of his wounds, while Lopez hands her any requested medical supplies. “He’ll be fine,” Tucker says to Carolina in an undertone. “I think he’s gonna be more pissed that the shrapnel fucked up his stupid Red Team tattoo than anything.”

She laughs a little at that and when Tucker meets her eyes, they're warm and bright, and greener than he’s ever seen. “You did good, Captain.”

“Oh, geez,” Epsilon groans, from where he’s hovering around Donut’s hands. “Come on C, don’t tell him that. He’s gonna start thinking he’s hot stuff.”

“Bitch, I already _am_ hot stuff,” Tucker says, puffing up his chest. “You should’ve seen me when I did that sword trick, okay, I was smooth as _butter_ …”

Carolina laughs again, and as Tucker glances around the Pelican, it’s to see nearly everyone smiling. The atmosphere in the cabin is almost giddy, and after a while, Tucker stops feeling guilty about it. He watches as Dr. Grey smooths Sarge’s hair back from his forehead, as the nurses they saved mingle with the soldiers, as Donut gives Carolina a manicure right there on the Pelican floor. It’s so different from the other times he’s made this ten-hour plane ride, and he thinks that after all of the terror, and heartache, and fear, that they deserve this: a giddy, triumphant, laughter-filled ride back to Armonia.

Back _home_.


	40. Chapter 40

Wash mutes the microphone on his headset with shaking hands, shoving his chair back from the table so hard he knocks it over. He mutters a quick sorry, rights the chair, and strides out of the room.

Air. He needs fresh air, but he doesn’t want to stray too far lest they need him back in the meeting room. He settles for stumbling to the nearest window and spends a few minutes trying to pry it open before he realizes it doesn’t open. There are blue skies just beyond it, and sweet fresh air that he needs—the air inside the base suddenly feels stale and small but Tucker is fine, they’re _all_ fine, fine, _fine_ —

“Hello, Agent Washington.” Wash half-turns to see Caboose fidgeting by his side. “Um, what are you doing?”

Too late, Wash realizes that he’s still pawing fruitlessly at the window and forces himself to stop. “Thought I’d get some fresh air,” he mumbles. “But—the windows don’t open—”

To his surprise, Caboose laughs. “Wash, that is very silly. It is a window! Windows are _supposed_ to open!”

He takes Wash by the shoulder, steers him a careful distance away from the window, and cheerfully puts his fist straight through the bulletproof glass. The whole pane falls out with a groan to crash on the pavement three stories below.

The door to the war meeting room opens and Doyle’s voice sounds, ringing with despair as he reprimands Caboose, but Wash merely closes his eyes, stepping closer to the window as a fresh, warm breeze brushes across his face. “I’m sorry, General,” he mutters, eyes still closed. “I’ll fix it.”

Doyle huffs. “Goodness gracious, Agent Washington, _you_ are not the one who broke it!”

“I’ll fix it anyway.”

After a few more seconds of wordless sputtering, Doyle stomps back into the meeting room. Wash grips the windowsill and leans as far out the window as he dares, sucking in as much of that sweet air as his lungs will allow. This—this is okay. _He’s_ okay. He can breathe, and Caboose is at his back, and Tucker is on his way home. Tucker, and Carolina, and Grif, and Grey, and Sarge, and Donut, and so many others that he’s come to care about. They’re okay, they’re fine, they’re alive, and they’re _coming home._ Wash still has his headset on, and he listens to their voices on the Pelican, giddy with their victory. They’re coming home.

Caboose joins him at the window, taking off his helmet to enjoy this fresh air as well. They stand there for a few moments in near silence, the only sound Caboose’s idle humming, before Wash looks at him. “Caboose, why are you in your armor?”

“Hmm?” Caboose says absently. “Oh! Well, I wanted to be ready, of course.”

“Ready for what?”

Caboose looks at him, exasperated. “For a rescue mission! In case _Tucker_ did something _stupid!_ There were a lot of people on that mission who do stupid things, you know. We _were_ going to rescue them if they did a stupid thing, right?”

Wash has to grin at the incredulous look on Caboose’s face. “We sure were, buddy.”

Caboose nods, placated. “I am glad that we did not have to. I am tired of rescue missions. Even though I am very good at them.”

“Me too, Caboose.”

Wash briefly considers heading back into the meeting room, but there seems to be no reason to. He keeps his headset on just in case, unmuting it only when Tucker occasionally speaks directly to him. The tension is just starting to melt out of his bones when Kimball approaches, her face drawn and unhappy. “What?” Wash asks, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

He directs his attention to his headset once more, but nothing seems amiss, and he focuses on what Kimball is saying. “Some of the cadets are missing.”

“Missing?” Wash asks blankly. “What do you mean, _missing?_ ”

“They are probably playing hide and seek,” Caboose says wisely. “There are many good places to hide on this base.”

“Their radios are out of range,” Kimball says tightly. “I—I don’t think they’re on the base anymore.”

Wash swallows, but he can’t avoid the question. “Who’s _they?_ ”

“Lieutenants Palomo, Andersmith, Jensen, and Bitters, and Privates Prajapati, Britton, Kennedy, and Martinez.” Kimball’s voice is utterly flat. “Simmons tried to radio Britton to help fix one of the radios in the comm room, and she didn’t answer. I knew they were up to something, they’ve been acting so strangely lately….”

“General Kimball?”

They all turn to see Patil lumbering down the hallway. “There’s a Pelican missing,” he says bluntly, with no preamble.

“Oh no, one of the birds flew away,” Caboose whispers.

“Are you sure?” Kimball asks, her voice sharp.

“Yup. Broken bird.” Patil shrugs.

“It was one of the Pelicans in line to be fixed,” Wash translates hastily. “Clearly someone…fixed it.”

“Katie _Jensen,_ ” Kimball mutters. She glances around, then drops her voice. “Alright, we need a few people to look for them—”

“Oh! Oh!” Caboose is practically jumping up and down with excitement. “Me! I am very good at this game, Captain Pinball!”

“I know you are, Caboose,” Kimball says seriously. “But I need you to do it _quietly_. Okay?”

Caboose drops his voice. “Is this a secret mission?”

“It’s a _very_ secret mission.”

“Then I will be very quiet.”

“Thank you, Caboose.”

“I’ll look too,” Wash offers. He taps his headset. “I’ll listen in in case anything goes down, but moving around would be nice.”

“I’ll look too,” Patil says vaguely, and moves to wander off.

“Wait—Patil, we need to be smart about this. Divide up the base so we aren’t searching the same sections.”

“I’ll help too,” Kimball says with a sigh. “I know some places where they might be…”

But despite their best efforts, three hours later the four of them are huddled in the landing bay, furiously comparing notes.

“They’re not here,” Kimball says flatly. “They’ve—gone somewhere.”

“But _where?_ ” Wash asks, for what seems to be the thousandth time. “Where could they possibly have gone?”

“They probably wanted to help?”

“Help with….” A cold feeling settles into the pit of Wash’s stomach as he locks eyes with her. “Help with the mission.”

“Uh oh,” Patil mutters.

“But…” Wash frowns. “That can’t be right. They didn’t even want to _go_ on that mission.”

“I think I’m starting to see why,” Kimball says through clenched teeth.

Wash sighs. “Can we track them?”

She looks at him a bit strangely then. “It’s possible,” she says, after a slight hesitation. “Let’s….let’s get the others back, and then come up with a plan.”

“When are they due back?”

She sighs, glances at the clock. “Within the hour.”

Wash realizes with a jolt of alarm that Tucker has been oddly silent on the radio, but after a few moments of listening hard, he relaxes. Tucker is sleeping, his breath even and steady. It occurs to Wash that he’s been awake for close to twenty-four hours now, and the exhaustion suddenly hits him all at once.

He sits down right there on the floor of the landing bay, head resting against the back of the wall. “May as well wait for them here,” he explains to Kimball, and she nods, taking a seat next to him.

He almost jolts in surprise when she leans her head right against his shoulder, and a vivid memory blossoms in his mind: waiting with Carolina on a mission that ran too long, hidden under an overhang in the rain. They’d both been awake for well over a day, and had fallen half- asleep just like this, heads pressed together, while they waited for their team to come get them. Wash rests his head against Kimball’s now, and although their closeness is practical rather than sentimental, he finds himself struggling for meaningful something to say anyway. “We’ll find them,” is all he’s able to manage.

Neither one of them manage more than a fitful doze, and it seems like only five minutes later that the incessant beeping starts in the landing bay, signaling a Pelican’s arrival. Kimball stands immediately, and Wash takes the hand she offers as the Pelicans begin to pull in.

It’s almost enough to lift his spirts, watching the soldiers debark from the Pelican. Their giddy, joyous atmosphere is so different than the usual dejection that Wash finds himself grinning, especially when he catches sight of Tucker moonwalking off of his Pelican. Even Sarge is on his feet, his arm slung over Dr. Grey's shoulder as they gingerly make their way out of the landing bay. Wash hangs back from the crowd, watching Tucker shake his hair out as he removes his helmet, watches him wander through the crowd to give high fives and fist bumps.

He catches Wash’s eye and practically skips across the landing bay, eyes bright. “Wash! Man, we fucking _did_ it! We kicked their asses! Well, you know that, you were listening—but—” he laughs a little wildly, and Wash’s heart breaks to see just how badly Tucker needed this win.

How badly they _all_ needed it.

“I’m proud of you,” Wash says, because he needs Tucker to hear that first, before it is sullied by the news of the missing cadets.

Tucker’s head ducks, and Wash is reminded that he isn’t the only one still learning how to take a compliment or piece of good news without immediately doubting it. “Yeah, we did—did pretty good, right?”

“You were perfect,” Wash says. “I knew you would be.”

Tucker leans in for a kiss and Wash obliges him. They’re on the edges of the crowd so there’s only a bit of tittering, but at the moment Wash couldn’t care less. Tucker laughs a little into the kiss, pulling back to tap at Wash’s head. “Dude, have you been wearing that the whole time?”

Wash reaches up to remove the headset and turn it off. “I forgot it was on,” he says sheepishly. “I…wanted to be in contact, in case anything happened.”

He doesn’t think there’s any change in his voice or facial expression, but some of Tucker’s brightness dims. “Aw, fuck, something’s wrong, isn’t it? What happened? Is it your implants?”

Wash has to think on what Tucker is referring to. In all the excitement, he’s completely forgotten about asking Dr. Tronosky to remove his implants. “Oh—no, nothing like that. I haven’t gotten to talk to him about the scans yet.”

“Okay,” Tucker says slowly. “What is it, then?”

Wash sighs, but he knows that patronizing Tucker or drawing it out will only make things worse. “It’s the cadets. Some of them are missing.”

Tucker’s brow furrows. “Who?”

“All four of the Lieutenants, and Prajapati, Britton, Kennedy and Martinez.”

To his surprise, Tucker’s face clears. “Aw, dude—they’ve got like a million dumb hiding spots! They’ve gotta be around here somewhere.”

“They’re not. We looked.”

“What about in that out-of-use meeting room? Where they watch that show?”

“Empty.”

“Okay, there’s this one spot in the courtyard behind the old war memorial—”

“Caboose looked there.”

“Well…” Tucker frowns. “Okay, on the basement level—”

“Jensen brews liquor in an old car engine. Kimball knows all about it, and they’re not there, either.”

“Oh—well….well…”

“Tucker, there’s a Pelican missing,” Wash says. “They’re _gone_.”

Tucker steps away from him, face flushing with anger. “Well, _fuck!_ What the hell are we doing standing around here, then? Can we track the Pelican? We should be _looking_ for them—”

“And we will be,” Wash says calmly. “We wanted to make sure all of you were accounted for, first. Caboose had the idea that they may have followed you all out to the mission. You didn’t see any of them in that hospital, did you?”

“None,” Tucker says, despair creeping into his voice. “None of them. But—but maybe someone else did?”

They glance around, to where other soldiers have broken off into little groups and pairs, clearly discussing the same things that they are. Tucker begins to make his way through the crowd, motioning for Wash to follow, and it doesn’t take them long to confirm: no one knows where the cadets are.

The way Tucker’s face falls when the realization hits him starts a fresh ache in Wash’s chest. “Fuck,” he says, a world of misery packed into the single syllable. “Fuck! What the hell were they _thinking?!_ Where were they _going?_ Fuck, what if they _were_ on that mission and we didn’t see them? How did they leave here with no one seeing them?”

Wash has been wondering the same thing. Even with all of them focused on the mission, a Pelican leaving the landing bay still should have lit up on their radar. “They must’ve done something to the navigational tracking system,” he says slowly. “So that we wouldn’t be able to see them leave.”

“So…what, so we can’t track them at _all?_ ”

“I’m not sure,” Wash says. “Let’s….come on. Let’s go talk to the Generals. We’ll come up with a plan.”

Tucker catches his arm, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “When was the last time you slept? Have you been awake since we left?”

“When was the last time y _ou_ slept?” Wash asks defensively.

“Uh, I just slept for five hours on the Pelican, so don’t give me that!”

“Look…” Wash rubs a hand across his face. “Let’s just try to get some indication on what to do next, and then I’ll sleep. Okay?”

Tucker glares at him, but Wash can see that he’s won. “Okay, but Wash you could’ve slept while we were gone, _Jesus._ ”

“They needed people to run the comms,” he says. “And I wanted to be there.”

“You still could’ve taken a break.”

“Tucker, it doesn’t _matter_ —”

“Yes it does. And don’t,” Tucker jabs a finger into his chest for emphasis, “think we’re done with this conversation, either.”

“Alright,” Wash says impatiently. “Come on, let’s go find Kimball.”

Kimball is still in the landing bay, speaking lowly with Carolina, although the bay has thinned significantly while Wash and Tucker were talking.  They’ve no sooner approached them when a loud beeping noise begins—the sound of another Pelican approaching the landing bay.

For a moment, the four of them freeze. “Open it,” Kimball whispers, then clears her throat. “ _Open_ it!”

“Wait!” Carolina catches hold of her arm as Kimball moves towards the button that will open the landing bay door. “General—we don’t know if it’s them.”

“Oh, I think it’s them.”

To Wash’s surprise, it’s Doyle who has spoken. He’s peering out the thick window towards the tarmac, looking as if he is torn between laughter and disapproval.

“Someone should still make _sure_ ,” Carolina says doggedly. “I’ll go. Wash—”

“Right behind you,” Wash says.

Tucker catches his arm. “Uh, no _way_ , you’re not in armor! I’ll go.”

“Right,” Carolina says. “Wash, stay here. Tucker, with me.”

Wash follows behind at a distance anyway, lingering in the doorway as a small crowd makes its way out onto the tarmac led by Carolina and Tucker. Wash sees all at once why Doyle was unconcerned: there on the tarmac is one of their formerly broken Pelicans—no longer broken, but looking brand new, with a fresh paint job and the words “ _BB’S BIRD_ ” emblazoned on the helm.

“Oh my God,” he mutters, as five seconds later the hatchway opens and Andersmith walks out, hands held high. Wash can’t hear what they’re saying, but Tucker and Carolina head in to clear the Pelican.

“Not bad, right?”

Wash turns to see Ali at his elbow, who is observing the Pelican and grinning. He nods at the paint on the helm. “Did that for BB. We gotta stick together, you know?”

He lifts his arm with a wry smile, and Wash looks at the paint job again. “It’s good,” he says. “Really good.”

Ali nods, looking faintly pleased. “Guess they made it back, then.”

“Made it back from where?”

Ali only smiles mysteriously, melting back into the crowd to where Sabine is waiting to link her arm through his. Tucker and Carolina emerge from the Pelican shortly after with the cadets in tow, and Wash heads out further into the tarmac. Britton herself bounds out of the plane, armor stripped off to the waist. Wash lifts his eyebrows in surprise as she scans the crowd and instantly bolts over to him, eyes bright and fierce and glowing with pride.

“Agent Washington! Agent Washington! We did it, we got it for you!”

Wash stares at her, bewildered. “Got… _what_ for me?” It’s only then that he notices something tucked protectively under her only arm. She fumbles it slightly as she holds the object out to him.

His helmet.

He gapes at it for a moment before taking it, looking from her to the helmet. Behind Britton, he can see the other cadets making their way to him, each holding various pieces of his armor. “I— _what_ —how—did you…”

He gives up trying to speak. There are no words for this, for the sight of all the cadets, flushed from their victory, high-fiving and nudging each other out of the way to hand Wash a glove, a shoulder guard, his greaves. He lets them pile it into his arms until there’s too much, and lays it out carefully on the floor.

It’s all there. Every piece of his steel and yellow armor is laid out before him, tiny slivers of sky blue visible where the grey paint has chipped. He looks around, dazed, as he struggles to find something to say. Kimball appears torn between fury and relief, Doyle has an exasperated hand clapped to his forehead, Tucker looks as if someone hit him across the face with a bag of bricks, and Carolina is positively beaming. The tarmac is becoming more packed by the minute, with other curious soldiers drawn in by all the noise, and still Wash merely gawks at them all.

“Why?” he manages finally. He’s still clutching his helmet, turning it over and over in his hands, unable to believe that it is real.

“Because you deserve better than our armor, sir,” Jensen says seriously.

“And armor is important,” Britton adds.

“Because,” Andersmith says, deeply serious, “you have given us the gift of your knowledge, to help us better protect ourselves and our home. We are honored to give something back to you.”

“I….”

There’s a part of him that thinks of duty, and of the reprimand he should give them for going on a rogue mission. It’s the part that has spent over a decade in the military, that paid such strict attention to protocol that he was blind when one of his best friends told him something was wrong with their organization, the part that grew obsessed with a leaderboard.

But he has not been a man of duty for quite some time now and deep down, he thinks he never fully was. It wasn’t _duty_ to an organization that led to his court martial, was not for _duty_ that the sim troopers took him in, was _duty_ that kept him on this planet.

He does not want to tell these cadets about their duty. He wants to tell them—

“Thank you.”

It’s infinitely worth it when their grins grow even larger, when they whoop and dance and hug each other. “This…it would not have been worth your lives,” he says, gesturing at his armor on the floor, because it’s less about protocol and more about the fact that he needs to make sure they know that, “but— _thank_ you. You…you did good, soldiers.”

“Really?”

It’s Jensen then, her eyes brimming with tears behind her glasses, and Wash reaches out to shake her hand. “I would have been honored to wear your armor, Lieutenant.”

She bursts into tears, melting back into Prajapati’s arms as Britton pats her shoulder, still grinning. Wash stands back then, lets Kimball lecture them on mission protocol and safety, watches her address them with a level of respect and dignity that he has seen so rarely in a leader. Tucker’s shoulder nudges against his own, and when Wash looks at him, his heart lifts to see that the joy from his own successful mission is back all over his face. “It’s good to see you back in that armor,” he says lowly, despite the fact that Wash isn’t even wearing it yet, “but I think it’d look even better on _my_ floor.”

“Jesus Christ,” Epsilon mutters, as Tucker smashes his lips against Wash’s before dashing off to join the slowly departing crowd. Wash is reaching up to touch his lips, grinning, when he notices Epsilon still staring at him, and lets his hand fall. They stand like that for nearly a minute, looking at each other, then away, then back at each other, before Epsilon clears his throat. “So.”

He jerks his head vaguely in the direction of where Tucker vanished. Wash says nothing at first, eyes wandering over the crowd, until they settle on Carolina and Kimball a dozen yards away. Carolina is showing her something on her datapad, giving a brief recap of the mission, Wash suspects. There’s nothing particularly special about what they’re doing, except _everything_ about it is special, because when Kimball leans her head in to point at something, Carolina’s eyes flutter as Kimball’s hair brushes her cheek.

“So,” Wash says softly, nodding his head at them. Epsilon follows his gaze, and although Wash cannot see him, cannot feel him, he knows that he is trying not to smile.

They do not speak again, and Wash knows, he _knows,_ that this is it for the two of them. He thinks that sometimes, this is as good as it gets: painful eye contact, a word that means nothing and everything, and a half-acknowledged realization of the little bits of light in their lives.

Epsilon turns away from him to stand over Carolina’s shoulder, looking as if he belongs there, and Wash thinks that sometimes, _as good as it gets_ can be enough.

It _has_ to be enough.

* * *

The energy from the mission success and the cadets victory permeates the base for nearly a week after. Wash knows that it’s another calm before the storm, but he can’t bring himself to care just yet. He begins to train the cadets again, slipping into his armor as if it’s a second skin, and has his ass thoroughly handed to him by Carolina in their first training session since his rescue. He sits there for nearly an hour after with her in companionable silence, passing a canteen of cool water back and forth and stretching idly. He spends the better part of a day convincing a tearful Caboose that Freckles will be happiest living in Caboose’s gun, and that finding another MANTIS body just isn’t practical.

“He can protect you better this way,” Wash explains to him. “Look, you can’t bring a MANTIS with you onto—onto a Pelican, right? So he couldn’t be with you on most missions. But _this_ way—” he gives Freckles a pat on the barrel. “—he can protect you all the time.”

Caboose sniffs. “Like a guard dog?” he asks hopefully, eyeing the gun with new interest.

“ _Exactly_ like a guard dog,” Wash says, and he lets Caboose throw his arms around Wash’s neck and thank him for being the best friend ever, really, just the absolute _best_.

Wash and Tucker alternate sleeping in Wash’s own bed and Tucker’s, and although Wash does not wet the bed again, he still has nightmares more often than he would like. He spends nearly ten minutes heaving into a trash can after a particularly violent one, Tucker rubbing a hand up and down his back and muttering to him all the while.

“Wash, I think Grey is right,” Tucker says, after Wash has changed t-shirts and they’ve switched to Tucker’s room for a change in scenery.

Tucker’s sitting behind him in the dark, legs on either side of Wash’s waist as he rubs his shoulders, so Wash can only twist so far to meet his eyes. “Right about what?”

“About, you know. Taking something. Medication.”

“I can’t take a sleeping pill,” Wash says, alarmed, “you know that—”

“I don’t mean a sleeping pill,” Tucker says quickly. “I meant, you know. Like for your anxiety. It might help.”

Wash shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t know, Tucker.”

“Why not, though?”

“I…might not always have access to it,” Wash says haltingly. “It would be foolish to depend on something that might not always be there.”

“You have access to it _now,_ though,” Tucker says. “Kinda seems _more_ foolish to not try something that could make you feel better.”

“I’m—” he stops himself from saying _fine_ just in time. “I _am_ feeling better.”

“I know, dude. But—you could feel even _better_ than better. Maybe it’d help these shitty nightmares or something.”

When Wash doesn’t answer, Tucker sighs, hands dropping from Wash’s shoulders as he presses his lips to Wash’s spine. “It doesn’t make you weak, you know.”

Wash’s heart contracts at the words, and he turns around to face Tucker. “You really think it would help?”

“I have no clue,” Tucker says honestly, “but Grey would. I think you should talk to her. Like, _really_ talk to her.”

It isn’t until two days later, when Tucker wakes howling from his own nightmare, that Wash considers it, _really_ considers it. He isn’t sure what the correlation is, between Tucker shaking in his arms and taking further steps to manage his own PTSD, but he knows that they are correlated, woven together too tightly to separate.

“I shouldn’t have let him fuck me,” Tucker mutters into his chest now, voice thick with tears that he’s refusing to let fall. “Shouldn’t have—was so _stupid,_ I _always_ do stupid shit, always, I’m so _stupid_ —”

Wash tilts his face up until their eyes meet and tells Tucker that he isn’t stupid, that he’s beautiful and brave and allowed to be upset. Tucker listens to him, eyes solemn, until his breathing evens out, and they’re laying back down on the bed together, drifting off into a blessedly dreamless sleep.

* * *

“We need a new safe word,” Tucker blurts out at breakfast the next morning.

Wash pauses, spoonful of oatmeal halfway to his mouth. “Christ,” Grif mutters, lifting the tray he’s just set down and moving to an adjacent table to sit with some of the News instead. Donut, however, pauses with an apple halfway to his mouth and eyes them with interest.

“Go on,” Wash says slowly, setting his spoon down.

“Right, so, I feel like red is too charged, ya know?” Tucker says quickly. “Like, last time you said it we were in that fucking torture chamber room.”

“Oooh, yes,” Donut says, nodding, “absolutely, you should have a new word.”

“And I feel like it might upset you—I mean. _Me_. It would freak _me_ out, dude, to hear you say that again. Like. I’ll just think of that mission and fuck, talk about a boner killer.”

“Oh, Tucker,” Donut says, resting his chin on his hand. “That’s so _brave_ of you, to admit that! A nuanced discussion of safe words is never easy and—”

He stops talking when he catches Wash’s exasperated look, and hastily resumes eating his apple, moving several seats down. “You’re right, Tucker.” Wash thinks. “Can we still use a color? I…the colors thing…helps me.”

Tucker nods, looking enormously relieved. “Fuck yeah we can! Shit, it can be another shade of red even, that’s totally fine. What about—scarlet? You wanna use scarlet?”

“Scarlet’s fine,” Wash says. “Easy to say. We can do that.”

“Fucking awesome. And I was thinking, we should have like, a check-in word? Like a green light. You know, if I ask you if you’re okay, you could say something that’s the opposite of scarlet, like—”

“Blue,” they say together, and Tucker grins. “Blue. Blue means everything is okay.”

“Blue means everything is okay,”” Wash echoes, and he thinks he’s never spoken truer words.

* * *

“So. I was thinking,” Tucker says, several days later, appearing in the doorway of Wash’s room. “About how you say you don’t know how to ask for what you need. Or what you want. Or how you sometimes suck at taking care of yourself. Whatever.”

Wash looks up at him then, choking off the automatic denial that rises in his throat. “I…no. Or yes. I—I don’t.”

“Okay.” Tucker takes a deep breath, and Wash watches, mesmerized, as his fidgeting turns into something strong and sure. “Okay, well, then. I thought we could work on that.”

“I’m…” Wash glances around, as if his room will provide answers. It does not. “Now?”

“Right now. We both have the rest of the night off.”

“Uh…okay. What did you have in mind?”

Tucker drops the bag he has slung over his shoulder onto the floor and digs deep. He comes up with his hands full of blue, blue like water, like a morning sky, and after closer inspection Wash sees that it is rope, the same kind that Carolina had told him to use months ago. Wash reaches out to touch it, trailing his fingers along the ridges.

Their eyes meet over the rope, and Tucker swallows hard, the barest flicker of doubt showing in his eyes once more. “We don’t—”

“Okay,” Wash says. He inches backwards until he’s sitting on the bed, and folds his hands in his lap, tilting his face up towards Tucker. “Show me.”

Tucker leans in to kiss him, one hand sliding through Wash’s hair to cup over his implants. The rope brushes against Wash’s forearms as they kiss and sends something electric through his veins. When Tucker pulls back, the doubt is gone completely. “Take off your clothes and get on the bed.”

Wash does. He unlaces his boots deliberately, removes each article of clothing carefully and folds them in a neat pile before sitting on the bed. Tucker watches him all the while and makes no effort to remove his own clothing, just folds and unfolds the rope in his hands. “Lay down. On your back.”

Once he does, Tucker steps over to him and sits down by his waist. He presses the heavy metal lid of his canteen into Wash’s palm, and wraps his fingers around it. “Tell me what you’ll say if you want me to stop.”

“Scarlet.”

“Good. And if you can’t talk, or don’t want to?”

Wash squeezes a hand around the lid. “I drop this. Or hit it against the bars.”

“Good. So good.” Tucker leans down and kisses his forehead, before pulling back to look Wash in the eyes. “I’m going to tie you up. Do you trust me?”

There is no hesitation in his answer. “Yes.”

Tucker kisses him again, on the lips this time, and stands back to examine Wash critically. The rope runs through his hands like a river, aqua blue and bright and when Tucker reaches for his wrist Wash surrenders it to him gladly. It’s quiet in the room as Tucker binds his hands over his head, one at a time, secured to separate corners of the bed. The rope rustles quickly against the sheets and his skin, the only other sounds a flock of birds outside and the distant noises of the base: an ammunitions test, faint laughter, a faint voice over the loud speaker. Wash watches Tucker work, fascinated by the sharp focus in his eyes, the confident twist of his fingers, the relaxed set to his shoulders. He’s sinking into something too, something different than what Wash is, but still connected, like opposing points on a compass.

Tucker steps back after securing his wrists and, to Wash’s slight surprise, slides down Wash’s body to sit between his legs. He wraps his hands around one of Wash’s ankles, directing it to the corner of the bed, and glances back up at him. “Is this okay?”

Wash nods, and Tucker lifts an eyebrow at him. “Use your words, Wash.”

“Yes,” Wash says quickly. “It’s fine, yes. Go ahead.”

Tucker smiles at him and resumes binding the ankle, then moving on to the other one, and sliding off the bed to examine his handiwork. Wash fidgets a little, testing the knots, but they hold fast. Tucker’s never tied his legs before and Wash feels rather exposed, bound spread eagle to the bed, naked while Tucker is still fully clothed, but there’s something oddly freeing in the vulnerability of it all. Tucker doesn’t do or say anything, just continues to watch him, but Wash can feel himself hardening in anticipation under that piercing gaze. There’s no hiding his arousal in this state and as he squirms, Tucker grins and reaches for him, fingertips just barely trailing along the edge of Wash’s jawline. “You look so fucking _pretty_ in my color, Wash. All mine to do whatever I want with.”

Wash’s abdomen pulls tighter still at those words and he nuzzles his chin into Tucker’s fingers, pressing a kiss there. He _is._ He’s Tucker’s right now, in this moment, and the thought is _intoxicating._ He wants to do this right, to be good for Tucker—

And, maybe, to be good for _himself,_ too. “What do you want me to do?”

Tucker removes his fingers and Wash stills a whine in his throat, his body already aching for the contact. Tucker pulls something out of his pocket, something black and silky looking. An eye mask. “Only if you’re okay with it.”

Wash eyes it, a bit apprehensive but curious, too. “Yeah. I think so. Let’s—let’s at least try it.”

Tucker gives him the sweetest smile before bending down and slipping the mask over his eyes. The world plunges into darkness and before Wash can think too hard on it, Tucker’s palm is on his cheek, warm and reassuring. “I’m right here, okay?”

“Okay,” Wash whispers. Tucker leaves his hand there for a minute and Wash adjusts to the sensation. It’s as if all his other senses are spectacularly magnified: he can smell Tucker’s shampoo, hear his even breathing, and he’s so hyper aware of Tucker’s hand on his cheek that the loss of it is particularly regretful.

“I’m going to touch you with this rope now. Stop me if you don’t like it.”

Wash nods, heart pounding but trusting in Tucker. Okay,” he hastens to add, as the silence stretches on. He jumps a little as he feels something soft drape across his chest, dragging down the line of his sternum to his belly button, then back up again. It feels nice, just on the edge of ticklish but not quite there, and there’s a dip on the bed from where Wash thinks Tucker is settling himself between his spread legs. “Okay, Wash,” Tucker says as he drags the rope lower and swirls it around on Wash’s stomach. “I’m going to do whatever you want me to do. Nothing’s off the table. I can touch or fuck you however you want…fast or slow, you name it.”

The rope trails down the inside of one of Wash’s thighs and he shifts restlessly. “But,” Tucker says softly, shifting the rope to his other leg. “You have to ask for it.”

“Now?” Wash asks, breathless, as Tucker continues to slide the rope up and down his thighs, across his hips. He can feel himself growing harder, and realizes he’s trying to press up into the feather-light touches of the rope. “Do—do I ask you now?”

“Don’t worry about it just yet,” Tucker says. “Just relax and let me take care of you for a minute.”

Wash jumps as Tucker finally lets the rope brush across his cock, hips bucking up into it. “So beautiful, Wash,” Tucker murmurs. “Think I like how your cock looks with my color all up on it.”

Tucker begins to swirl the rope around the base of his cock until it’s loosely wrapped around him, and Wash groans again as he drags it up, the soft ridges pulling pleasantly against his skin. He slides the rope up and down Wash’s length a few times, effectively jerking him off with it, and Wash is fully hard in moments, bucking desperately into the sensation. “Good,” he gasps. He writhes against his bonds as Tucker continues, tightening the rope ever so slightly. “ _God,_ that’s good….”

Tucker continues until the motions of Wash’s hips grow desperate as he tries to find an even greater friction. Tucker unwinds the rope slowly until it’s completely gone from his cock and lets it trail up Wash’s chest. He swings the rope back and forth across Wash’s chest like a pendulum, the fabric brushing across his nipples again and again until they’re hard and swollen and he’s arching into the touch. Wash tosses his head as the rope is removed completely, trying to track its motion, and he moans in relief when he feels it brush across his lips.

“Suck,” Tucker commands him, and Wash sucks the fabric into his mouth hungrily. He runs his tongue along the ridges, rolls it in between his teeth, and Tucker leaves it there for him to mouth at.

Wash gasps around the rope as he feels another one wrap around his cock again. Tucker jerks it up and down his length with greater intention this time, and Wash sucks on the rope in his mouth at the same pace, a desperate moan escaping him as Tucker brings him right up to the edge and back down again.

“Holy shit, Wash,” Tucker mutters, and Wash arches towards him, desperate for the warmth of his skin, for something hard and unyielding to press him into the mattress. “You look so fucking **hot.** Suck on this a little more for me, yeah?”

Wash feels the edges of the rope pull down by his jaw as Tucker drags it to his back molars, spreading his lips wide. Wash sucks on it as best he can in the somewhat awkward position, the rope stretched across his mouth like a gag, and he hears the unmistakable sound of Tucker jerking himself off. Wash whines, tossing his head, but he can’t see, can only listen.

Tucker wraps another length of rope around the base of his cock and leaves it there, a light pressure where Wash needs something harder. He thrusts into it anyway as Tucker pulls the rope away from his mouth, only to replace it several seconds later, wound up thickly into an oval shaped length. Wash parts his lips and sucks at it gladly as Tucker thrusts the rope into his mouth as if it’s his own cock, and Wash can hear his other hand jerking at himself wetly. Tucker works the rope further into his mouth until it’s pressing against the very back of his throat. “Keep sucking on that, Wash,” Tucker commands hoarsely, pulling his hand away to work at himself. “That’s it….”

Wash does, sucking on the wad of rope as if he were sucking Tucker himself off, moaning around the length. He still can’t feel Tucker, but can hear his ragged breathing as brings himself closer and closer to his climax. From what he can tell, Tucker is straddling his chest now, body held just out of reach no matter how desperately Wash squirms towards him.

He and Tucker groan in tandem as Tucker comes, splattering himself across Wash’s chest and the base of his throat. Wash can hear Tucker’s shaky exhale even over his own ragged breathing and pounding heart, thudding in his ears. Tucker is silent for a moment, and Wash jumps when he feels Tucker’s fingers trail through the mess he’s left on Wash’s chest. “So good,” he murmurs, and Wash flushes in pleasure. “Wash, you’re _so good_. Holy fuck I wish you could see yourself.”

Wash whines in protest as he feels the bed dip, and Tucker moves even farther away from him. Tucker chuckles lowly, but goes silent once more. Wash listens hard as he hears what sounds like a towel unfolding, and jumps as Tucker gently cleans him off.

He removes the rope from Wash’s mouth and Wash gasps, oddly regretful for the loss. “Tucker…”

“Yes, baby?” Tucker croons, and Wash jumps because he’s right there, his breath hot against Wash’s ear. “Go on, you can tell me now. Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you. Might need to wait a while if you want me to fuck you but we got all night. I’ll get it up again for you. Whatever you want.”

When Wash doesn’t answer, Tucker reaches down to remove the rope from where he’s left it draped across Wash’s cock. He lets his palm linger a little, sliding up the side of Wash’s length and Wash moans in relief at the skin on skin contact, however slight it may be. “I’m waiting, Wash.”

“I…I…” Wash realizes he’s rolling his hips against the air, searching for Tucker’s hand, but Tucker does not touch him again. “I, um, I…”

“Hmmm,” Tucker murmurs thoughtfully, his breath still close to Wash’s ear. “Maybe this would be easier if you can see me.”

He shifts his weight once more and then Wash is blinking against the sudden light. It’s dim in the room, but the lights seem unbearably bright after the total darkness, and it takes Wash a few moments to adjust. When he does, it’s to see Tucker hovering naked over him, one knee on either side of Wash’s waist, body held high out of reach. Wash arches towards him anyway, but he’s bound too tightly and his squirming is ineffectual. “ _Tucker_ …”

“Go on,” Tucker encourages. He’s still sliding a length of rope between his hands, twisting and untwisting it, and Wash focuses on this, blue against deep brown. “Go on, you can tell me. Tell me what you want.”

“I—can’t,” Wash gasps. He whines, pulling against the rope. “Tucker, I _can’t_.”

“Yes you can,” Tucker soothes. He lets some of the rope drop out of his hands to brush against Wash’s throat and Wash shudders. “You can ask me for anything.”

Wash swallows hard, the rope moving with the motion of his throat. “It’s too—I can’t—you. I want…you.”

Tucker smiles at him, leaning so that his hands are pressed just above Wash’s shoulders. Wash moans in relief as Tucker brushes their lips together, but the kiss is just that: the merest brush of their mouths. “I know you do, and you’ve got me,” he breathes, eyes only inches from Wash’s own. “I know you want me, but what do you want me to _do?_ ”

“I, um.” There’s an uncomfortable lucidity preventing Wash from sinking fully into the haze of pleasure in his head, something sharp whispering to him that doesn’t _deserve_ this, doesn’t deserve to ask Tucker for _anything_. “Just—whatever you like.”

“Ohhh no,” Tucker says immediately. “You’re gonna tell me what you want me to do. Every goddamn detail. I’ll wait.”

“I…” his face is burning. He feels ridiculous, is sure he must _look_ ridiculous. “I feel stupid.”

Tucker laughs, but the sound is incredulous and not unkind. “You _what?_ ”

“I look…silly.”

“Wash.” Tucker fixes him with a piercing glare. “You do _not_ look silly. You look fucking gorgeous. Shit dude, I wanna eat you up. Tell me how you want it so I can get _on_ that.”

Wash opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Tucker trails the rope absently across his chest again, and Wash writhes. “I—I—I _can’t._ ”

“Why not?” Tucker runs a gentling hand over Wash’s forehead, and he presses into it in relief. “Wash, you can tell me anything. I just wanna make you feel good. But you gotta tell me how.”

“Why?” Wash asks. “You…you know what I like. You can just do…do whatever.”

“Because it’s important,” Tucker says firmly. “Because of _this._ Because you can’t even _do_ it and it’s important and you deserve nice fucking things and I’m gonna give them to you.”

Wash tugs against the ropes, every part of his body arching towards Tucker: hips, mouth, chest. Tucker pulls back each time, his skin just barely out of reach, and Wash falls back, panting loudly. “Tucker…” Wash wraps his hands tightly around the ropes and pulls, just enough to feel them dig into his skin, just enough to burn. He exhales, a long, shuddering breath that aches on its way out. “Tucker, _please_.”

Tucker’s eyes are back on his as he touches his forehead briefly to Wash’s, the only point of contact between their bodies. “Go on. Please what?”

Wash pants, squeezing his eyes shut. It shouldn’t be this hard, he knows that—Tucker is _right here_ , right in front of him and more than willing to do anything Wash asks for, but he can’t—he can’t quite—

He feels the press of Tucker’s forehead to his own again and forces his eyes open. “Kiss me,” he gasps.

“Hmmm.” Tucker blows out a breath, the air tickling against Wash’s ear and neck and collar. “Where?”

“On my… _on my_ …my mouth.”

Tucker moves closer still, his lips hovering just above Wash’s. “How?”

Wash whines, jerking hard against the ropes. They do not give. “ _Tucker_ …”

“Wash.” Tucker brushes a hand across his head and scratches his nails there, just hard enough to send little pinpricks of pain down his scalp, just enough to gather his delirious thoughts and center them. He tugs until Wash’s head is tipped back, and seconds later Wash hears his voice just by his ear. “C’mon. You’re right there. Just tell me.”

Tucker’s so close. He’s so close and Wash is still trying to tangle their legs together, to hook an arm over Tucker’s shoulders, to wrap a hand in his hair and tug him closer, but he can’t. He doesn’t have his arms, or his legs, or his body at all. His body is Tucker’s now, in this moment.

All he has is his voice. All he can do is _ask_ for it.

He gasps again, a long, shuddering thing, and something unlocks and turns to liquid in his spine. “Your tongue,” he gets out, eyes rolling back in his head. “Use your tongue—your teeth—kiss me, please, _please_ —”

Tucker does. He _does,_ and Wash moans into the kiss gratefully. It’s hot and familiar and so good, everything he asked for, teeth and tongue and lips and breath, Tucker is kissing him as if both of their lives depend on it and Wash curls his hands hard around the ropes and kisses him back.

They kiss. They kiss and kiss until Wash is _dizzy_ with it, until Tucker is pulling back mere centimeters and saying, “What now?” and Wash has to close his eyes again just to think. He’s so full of a desperate, aching want that it’s nearly become a background thing at this point, the blood pounding steadily away in every limb of his body. “What do you want now, Wash?”

Tucker bites down on Wash’s ear, the press of his teeth quick but sure. His hands are still pressed into the mattress above Wash’s shoulders, body held taut several inches away, just close enough for Wash to feel the heat. He wants that heat now, against him, inside of him, all around him, and as he arches up, Tucker pulls away ever so slightly. “I want to come,” Wash gasps, his face burning at the words, some instinct in him jerking away from them— _I want, I want, I want_ —telling him they’re wrong, they’re dirty, he doesn’t _deserve_ them. “I want to come,” he says again anyway, and lets the heat from Tucker’s body ground him.

“’Kay,” Tucker says, and presses a long, lingering kiss to the base of his throat. “How?”

Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ He’s going to die. He’s going to die, right here on this bed, Tucker’s going to _kill him,_ going to drive him straight into madness— “God, Tucker—just— _please_ —”

“Tell me,” Tucker breathes, so close but not close enough. “Tell me what you want or you’re not coming. I swear to god. You’re gonna _tell_ me, you’re gonna use your goddamn _words_ and you’re gonna _ask_ for it—”

“Your hand,” Wash blurts. It’s the first thing that pops into his head and he latches onto it before he loses his tenuous place on solid ground. “ _Your hand_.”

Tucker touches him then, running a hand over his forehead and down his chest and just stopping at his hips. “What about it?”

Wash whines, long and low, and he doesn’t realize he’s tossing his head until Tucker’s other hand comes up to lay alongside of his cheek. “ _Wash_. You’re right there. You’re doing _so_ good. _Tell me what to do with my fucking hand.”_

Tucker’s hand is on his cheek and it’s the only steady thing in the world. Wash leans into it, turns his head and plants a kiss on Tucker’s open palm before turning back to look him in the eyes. “Your— _fuck_ , Tucker, just—just—put your hand on my dick, please…”

Tucker moves his hand, slowly, so slowly, before wrapping it around the base of Wash’s cock and just _leaving_ it there. Wash jerks up into it but the pressure is light, too deliberately light, he can’t take it anymore, he’s going to have a heart attack right on this bed. “Move your hand, move your hand, move your hand,” he chants, body writhing, everything in him arching towards Tucker. “Up and down—please— _please_ —”

 _There it is._ Tucker slides his hand up and down Wash’s shaft, his grip tight and momentum deliberate. Wash rocks his hips up frantically at first, but Tucker doesn’t pull away or slow down, just keeps going exactly how Wash asked. “That thing—with your thumb,” Wash manages to gasp, and Tucker does _that thing with his thumb_ , circling it along the head of Wash’s dick every time he strokes upward.

It isn’t long before Wash is groaning, hips snapping up rhythmically, and Tucker hums in his ear. “Yeah, just like that? You wanna come like this?”

“Yes—yes—no,” Wash gasps. He tries to slow the roll of his hips to no avail, grits his teeth and gets the next words out around the haze in his head. “ _Your mouth_ —please—use your mouth on me—”

Just like that, Tucker’s hand is gone, leaving Wash’s cock feeling cold and swollen. Tucker presses a sloppy, wet kiss to the head of Wash’s cock and slants his eyes up at Wash. “You like my mouth, Wash? Tell me what you want to do to it.”

His tongue darts out to swirl around Wash’s head, and Wash thrusts up into only empty air. “Your mouth, your mouth,” he babbles up at the ceiling. “ _Your mouth_ —Tucker—put your mouth on me, suck me off, God, up and down, please, please, please…”

And then everything is warm and everything is wet and Tucker sucks Wash all the way into his mouth and _hums_ , the sounds from his throat vibrating around Wash’s dick. Wash’s whole body shudders, toes curling, fingertips spasming; he almost loses the canteen lid and regrips it frantically lest he drops it, lest Tucker stop because he thinks he’s pushing Wash too far when all Wash wants is to be pushed farther still.

But Wash doesn’t drop the canteen lid and Tucker doesn’t stop, just keeps sliding his lips up and down Wash’s shaft as he hands press tightly against Wash’s thighs. It’s difficult for Wash to thrust into Tucker’s mouth with any sort of real momentum, and besides, Tucker’s sucking him off so good that he doesn’t really have to do anything. He tries to watch Tucker but it’s difficult at this angle; it feels so good but he wants to see Tucker, wants Tucker’s _mouth_ on his lips as he _fucks_ him—

As soon as the thought crosses his mind, to tell Tucker to stop, he realizes that he’s already speaking, a delirious babble of praise and thanks and Tucker’s name, over and over again. “W-w-wait,” he manages finally, everything in him trembling. “Tucker—s—stop—I want—I want—”

Tucker pulls off immediately, tilting his head at Wash. It’s all Wash can do not to beg him to put his mouth right back where it was, and he has to take a moment to regather himself. Tucker crawls back up him, smoothing a hand over Wash’s forehead before briefly pressing his lips there. “Hmmm? Go on baby, tell me what you want. Look at you, doing so good, holy _fuck_ Wash…”

“Fuck,” Wash gasps. The word sticks there in his foggy brain and he holds onto it. “Fuck—Tucker—I want you to—fuck me— _please_ —”

Tucker positively beams. “Yeah? How do you want it? Give me some details here….”

“Are…” The room is rather dim but everything seems brighter than usual right now, and Wash has to close his eyes for a second. “Are you—hard enough?”

Tucker smirks at him. “Hard enough to what, Wash?”

“To _fuck_ me,” Wash whines. “W—wait—no—I want…you on top of me or…fuck…”

He can’t think. He only knows he wants Tucker to utterly _wreck_ him, to turn him into even more of a mess than he already is. Tucker’s mouth on his neck is a lifeline, and he trails his lips along Wash’s jaw. “How about I do both?”

“W-what?”

And then he’s actually whimpering, desperate, crazed little noises punching out of him as Tucker rolls away, the warmth of his body gone completely. “Tucker—Tucker don’t _go,_ please—”

Tucker’s hand is back on the side of his face immediately. “I’m not going anywhere. Look, I got something for ya.”

He bends down slightly to retrieve a box from under his bed, pulling something long and black out of it. It takes Wash a moment to realize what it is, because _who the fuck_ has a vibrator in a warzone? _Supply run,_ he thinks, half-crazed, and then two seconds later decides he doesn’t give a fuck. “Oh god, yes, _please,_ fuck me with that…”

Tucker’s jaw drops open a little, eyes widening as he scrambles to settle in between Wash’s legs. “Whatever you say, Wash…”

“Lube,” Wash babbles. “We—we need lube and---a condom…”

“Shit, fuck, we sure goddamn do,” Tucker says, enthralled. It takes him longer than it should to retrieve the necessary condoms and lube, because he’s too busy staring at Wash.

“Put the lube on your fingers,” Wash says as Tucker returns to him once more. “Please—put them inside me, please—”

Tucker groans at his words, reaching a hand in between Wash’s legs and wriggling one finger at a time, until he’s three knuckles deep and Wash is keening like an _animal._ “Okay,” he finally whines, after spending nearly a minute trying to remember how to speak. He’s on the edge of something, he knows, and he can’t decide if he wants to fall into it or stay present. “The—vibrator—turn it on and fuck me with that, please, will you, Tucker? Will you, _please?_ ”

“Oh my God, _yes_ ,” Tucker says giddily. He withdraws his fingers and gets the vibrator turned on and up Wash’s ass so fast that Wash doesn’t even have time to beg for it. “Holy fucking Christ alive Wash, I’ll give you anything you ask for, anything, you just tell me, okay baby? Okay? Whatever you want and I’ll do it, okay?”

“Okay,” Wash gasps. “Okay, okay, okay—God, don’t stop, keep going—”

“ _Wash_ ,” Tucker breathes, and reaches a hand between his legs to stretch himself open as he fucks Wash relentlessly with the vibrator. “Wash, you’re so hot—so pretty and beautiful and sexy as _fuck,_ I’m gonna die—”

“Don’t,” Wash moans, and he means _don’t die, please, don’t ever go away, stay here and fuck me, stay here with me,_ but that sentence is too complex and gives it up. He focuses on the way Tucker is fucking him hard and fast with the vibrator, working his own fingers inside of himself to the same rhythm.

“Shit,” Tucker groans, hips rolling down. He grits his teeth, deliberately stilling his movements to eye Wash critically. “You good?”

“I’m good,” Wash gasps. “I’m—blue, God, I’m blue, everything’s blue—”

“Yes, yes,” Tucker agrees. “Fuck yeah it is—you look so fucking good in blue, all my color, all _mine_ —”

“Kiss me,” Wash says, and Tucker does, not even faltering in his pace. “Tucker—are you ready—I want you on top of me—”

“I’m so ready,” Tucker says. He grabs a condom and rolls it onto Wash’s dick, making to pull the vibrator out, but Wash makes a noise of protest.

“Leave it,” he says. “Leave it in there while you’re riding me—”

Tucker whimpers, surging up to straddle Wash. “You got it baby—shit, gonna ride you _so_ hard—”

“Do it,” Wash gasps, half begging, half commanding, “do it, _please,_ Tucker—I want to see you ride me, please—”

It’s the last thing he says for some time, because Tucker sinks down onto his dick and begins to ride him in earnest, head tossed, hands splayed out on Wash’s chest. It’s just like their first time, when it was all Wash could do to hold on to his hips and try not to blink, so as not to miss a single thing.

He can’t hold onto Tucker’s hips now, can’t touch him at all. He can only hold onto the ropes binding him, and trust in Tucker to take care of him, to not hurt him, to make him feel good, just like he asked. He watches as Tucker’s pace increases until he’s bouncing in Wash’s lap, and groans as Tucker reaches back behind him and grips onto the vibrator and thrusts it into him, over and over—

Good, good, _good,_ it’s so good, it’s _so good,_ and Wash writhes against the ropes binding his wrists and ankles and tries to hold onto his sanity—

It’s different, though, this particular loss of his sanity. He’s gone, he’s so far gone and he doesn’t even know his own _name_ but he isn’t lost at sea, the waters are calm, there are no rapids on the rivers and he can’t move, he can’t run, he can barely _speak_ , but he is okay, he is safe, here, and when he comes, it’s to the feel of ropes cutting into his skin just right and Tucker hips snapping down against him and Tucker’s moan as he comes as well and Tucker, Tucker, _Tucker,_ boxing him in, boxing him in just right, just the way he asked.

Wash’s vision goes white in the center and black around the edges. There’s a low hum somewhere in the background, beyond the sea of blood roaring in his ears, and Wash gives his head a little shake to try and clear it. He blinks several times, hard. His vision swims back but it’s blurry for some reason; he blinks again, confused as to why everything is so _wet—_

“Wash.”

Wash blinks again to the feel of hands on his face. Tucker is sitting up over him, the pads of his thumbs rubbing softly along Wash’s cheekbones. “Wash. Are you okay?”

Okay. _Okayokayokay._ He is. He _is_ okay. He is soft and spent and utterly wrung out, every bit of tension leeched out of his body and drawn from his mind. “Yeah,” he manages, his voice cracked and hoarse. “M’kay. M’blue.”

Tucker wipes his thumbs again along Wash’s cheeks—there are tears on his face, he realizes now, actual _tears_ —and reaches up to undo the bindings around Wash’s wrists. His ankles are already free, Wash realizes as he moves his legs experimentally, though he has no recollection of Tucker untying them.

“I think you passed out on me for a second there, dude,” Tucker informs him as he unties the last knot in the ropes, tugging them away from Wash’s wrists. When Wash doesn’t move his arms, Tucker grabs both of his hands and pulls them back down. Wash sighs in relief at the sensation, blood flowing back into his shoulders as Tucker moves his arms around, examining his wrists carefully, thumbs rubbing gently against where they’d been tied.

“Good,” he croaks, closing his eyes and relishing in the feel of Tucker’s hands rubbing up and down his arms. “That. _So good_.”

“Yeah?” Tucker asks, and he sounds so open and vulnerable that Wash opens his eyes.

“Yeah,” he whispers, and catches Tucker’s hand to give it a little squeeze. “ _Yeah.”_

Tucker ducks his head, then busies himself in snagging the canteen from beside his bed. “C’mon, you need to drink this. You sound fucking parched.”

“Can’t,” Wash mumbles. The thought of sitting up is unthinkable. He’s pretty sure he’ll never be able to move again.

“Oh, yes you can…” Tucker pulls and tugs Wash to a sitting position, helps him lean against the wall, and presses the canteen into his hand. “Drink.”

Wash obliges, and once he starts, he doesn’t start until he’s drained the whole thing. He lets Tucker take it out of his hands, lets Tucker slide in between him and the wall and pull Wash’s body back against his own. Tucker’s hands run up and down his arms, massage his shoulders, smooth across his head. “Better?” he asks, his words tickling along Wash’s neck. 

“God yes,” Wash breathes.

Tucker gives his wrists a little squeeze. “See what happens when you ask for what you want? It’s not all _bad_ , dude. You gotta…you gotta _do_ that. You gotta fucking speak up when you need something. _Anything._ If you need a fucking day off or a nap or me to fuck the living Christ out of you, you gotta speak up.”

Wash nods a little, settling his head back against Tucker’s shoulder. “I…I’ll try. I’m trying.”

“I know. You did good. You were _perfect,_ Wash.”

“Thanks,” Wash says, the feel of Tucker’s hands and the boneless feeling in his limbs already starting to lull him into something that isn’t quite sleep, that is somehow better than sleep. He’s warm and sleepy, wrung out to dry and set in the sun, and he can barely manage another, "thank you."

“You got it, babe,” Tucker says. “I got you.”

* * *

Once upon a time, Washington woke up cold.

It had become such a given in his life that he stopped noticing it, or thinking anything of the way that he’d have to wrap up in a sweatshirt and pull all the blankets up to his neck in order to keep warm. He’d always slept better with a partner and was even able to fall asleep next to a one night stand back before it became so hard to trust. Wash had reveled in the body heat, had always edged closer and closer to the person he was in bed with, until they were pressed together.

Tucker, though—

 _Tucker’s a furnace,_ Wash thinks sleepily, as he awakes to the sound of Tucker’s snores reverberating into his own chest. _An actual space heater. A miniature sun._

He adjusts Tucker’s headband from where it’s starting to slip down over his forehead, and spends a few minutes running his fingers through Tucker’s hair until Tucker wakes up, blinking at the clock. “Ugh, do we have to get up already?”

They _do_ have to get up already, because Wash needs to see Dr. Tronosky about his implants and Tucker has a firearms training session with the Lieutenants. Tucker could not be less thrilled about either of these things. “That’s gonna be a nightmare. The cadets have been strutting around like they’re hot shit ever since their armor rescue mission.”

He’s not wrong. Even a week later, the cadets were preening at every turn. Wash can’t help but grin every time he sees evidence of this—they’ve come so far from the nervous, uncertain group he’d been training at the beginning. The mission had invigorated them, even the cadets who hadn’t gone on the mission.

“—not gonna do anything stupid, right?” Tucker is saying.

Wash turns his gaze to him. “Sorry?”

Tucker pouts, rolling on top of him. “You’re not listening to me.”

He grins at the indignant look on Tucker’s face. “Yes, I am. I’m sorry. Go on.”

“I said, you’re not gonna do anything stupid, right? If Dr. Tronosky can’t take out your implants?”

Oh. That. Wash’s grin fades a little as he sighs. “I’m not going to do anything stupid.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Tucker leans down to kiss him then, capturing Wash’s wrists and pinning them to the bed. His kisses are desperate and commanding, and Wash leans into them, tugs against Tucker’s grip on his wrists just to feel the hold tighten. Tucker works him up into a frenzy, manages to get them both off in less than ten minutes, and is whistling when he stands and begins to dress.

Neither of them have need to be in their armor today, so within a few minutes they’re out the door. It’s strange, Wash thinks idly, how this is the first time he’s been in an active war zone for years, and he’s never been out of his armor more. It still feels odd, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to give it up completely, but he supposes time will tell.

He says goodbye to Tucker and knocks on the door of the infirmary, to the backroom that has become Dr. Tronosky’s makeshift office. Dr. Tronosky bids him to enter immediately, scans of his brain up around the room.

“Good morning, Wash.”

“Morning,” Wash says. He sits in one of the chairs and tries not to fidget. “So…so you’ve had a chance to look everything over?”

“I have,” Dr. Tronosky says slowly. He sighs, straightening up. “Wash, I’m going to be frank with you. When I designed these implants, I did not design them to be taken out. The Freelancer implants are, as you likely know, much more complex than the implants the simulation troopers were wired with. They were designed with the idea in mind that you were all either going to be career soldiers, or die before taking them out became an issue.”

He pauses, apparently waiting to see if Wash has anything to add, but he merely looks at Dr. Tronosky. The doctor clears his throat and continues. “The implants themselves were never designed to be a burden. In the event that a soldier _did_ retire, they should be able to live a normal life, without even realizing that they’re there.”

“But I _do_ know they’re there,” Wash says, unable to keep quiet this time. “I _know_.”

“Are your implants causing you pain?”

“Well—I mean, the headaches that I get…they’re not exactly a walk in the park.”

“You would still get those headaches even if the hardware was removed,” Dr. Tronosky says quietly. “They are a result of the brain damage you’ve suffered, not the hardware.”

Wash feels oddly empty, as if something inside of him has been scooped out. “You’re saying you can’t do it.”

“I can’t do it.”

“But…” Wash runs a hand over the back of his head, frustrated. “But _why?_ ”

“Although they were not designed to be taken out, most soldiers’ _could_ be. You, Wash, have had far too much head trauma, and a surgery of this magnitude would be _extremely_ invasive.”

“I know,” Wash says, “but I’ve had invasive surgery before—”

“And you should not have any more unless absolutely necessary. It’s far too risky, Wash.”

There’s a look of finality on Dr. Tronosky’s face that lets Wash know he’s not going to change his mind. He knows he shouldn’t, anyway, knows that Dr. Tronosky’s right, that Tucker’s right, but…

“I just thought…”

“Thought what?”

“I thought that’s why you were here,” Wash mutters. “Thought that….that this was the _point,_ for you to take them out…”

To his surprise, Dr. Tronosky laughs, but the sound is not unkind. “We both did, Agent Washington.” He stands, walking to over to Wash and gesturing at his head. “May I?”

Wash nods, turning around, and he feels Dr. Tronosky’s hands tilting his head forward a little. “I can put a lock on the ports,” he says after a few moments. “To make sure that no one is able to violate your mind in such a way ever again.”

“I’ve had a lock on my ports before,” Wash reminds him wryly. “Didn’t work out so well.”

He tries not to think of it, of his face pressed hard into the wall, Epsilon screaming inside his head, Maine’s knife slicing along the back of his neck as he’d tried to cut Epsilon’s chip out, but thinks of it anyway, hands clenching at his sides. “This lock wouldn’t be like that one,” Dr. Tronosky says calmly. “That was temporary. This would be nearly impossible to remove.”

“Well…” Wash pauses. “I suppose it’s better than nothing. Right?”

“I would say so.”

Wash stands, and Dr. Tronosky’s hands slide off the back of his skull. “Is it dangerous?”

“No, not at all. You’ll be awake for the whole thing.”

“That’s good.” He smiles a little. “I promised Tucker I’d discuss it with him first if I were going to do anything dangerous.”

Dr. Tronosky grins as well. “He’s very…”

“Stubborn? Loyal?”

“Protective,” Dr. Tronosky says. “Of you. Of _all_ of you.”

He holds out a hand, and Wash shakes it. “Come by tomorrow, and we’ll get it all sorted. I just need to get a few things ready.”

“Thank you.”

He has nearly thirty minutes until his bi-weekly appointment with Dr. Grey, but Wash heads over to her office for lack of anything better to do. Her door is open, and he pauses on the threshold, clearing his throat.

Dr. Grey glances up, smiling brightly. “Why hello there, Wash!”

“Hey. Uh, I know I’m early—I can come back in a bit if you want.”

“Don’t be silly.” She sets her datapad down and gestures to the seat across from her. “Come on in!”

He does, surprised to feel some of the unhappy tension in his shoulders vanishing already. It seems like only yesterday that being in here or in the hospital made him feel like a trapped animal, but now, he feels oddly safe. “Is everything alright? You look a teensy bit sad.”

“I’m okay,” Wash says slowly. “It’s just….I spoke with Dr. Tronosky. Seems as if he’s not going to be able to take my implants out, after all.”

She sighs. “Ah, yes. I looked at the scans myself and he’s quite right, Wash.”

“I know,” Wash says. “No, I…I know. If _he_ says it can’t be done, and _you_ say it can’t be done, then…it can’t be done.”

“But you wish it could be.”

“Well, of course I do.”

“May I ask why?”

He frowns. “Why…what?”

“Why do you want these out of your head so badly?”

He stares at her for a moment, but she waits patiently. “Well….why wouldn’t I? They’ve caused me nothing but trouble from the day they were put into my head. As long as they’re there, someone could put something else in my brain. Dr. Tronosky said he could lock the ports, but…”

“I’ve seen his designs for the lock, Wash. It does seem to be rather tamper proof,” Dr. Grey says encouragingly. “The odds of something like this happening again are very slim.”

“Yeah,” Wash says, and he pauses, picking up the blue pen he always reaches for her in the cup on her desk. “It’s just…”

“Just?”

“I feel….contaminated,” he says haltingly. “Having this hardware in my head. I always have, but now….”

“It feels like a violation,” she says softly.

He nods, grateful. “Yes. And I just thought that Dr. Tronosky being here, being able to take them out—I thought that was the point, you know?”

She tilts her head. “The point?”

“Yeah. You know, the reason I went through all of this.” He gestures at his head. “For a moment I thought…this could all be…not _worth_ it, but _something_ , if it meant it brought him here, and he took the hardware out. But…there was just no point at all.”

“Oh, Wash.” To his surprise, Dr. Grey is positively beaming, leaning forward to meet Wash’s eye. “Wash, there was _absolutely_ a point.”

“And what’s that?”

“The point,” Dr. Grey says slowly, “is that what those men tried to do to you _didn’t work_.”

When he continues to stare at her, she laughs a little. “Those men thought they had the perfect plan to break you, to get you onto their side—and it _failed._ They wasted countless money and hours on the construction of that simulation because they thought they _knew_ you, thought that the surefire way to get to you was to poke at your past trauma. They forgot to factor in just how strong you’ve become. _That’s the point_.”

“Is that why…” he pauses, trying to think of how to phrase his thoughts. “It feels _easier,_ this time. It took me two years to put my head back together last time. I really thought it would be the same, but…”

“It’s not,” Dr. Grey finishes, and he nods.

“Exactly.”

“It’s been difficult,” she says, “and you should allow yourself to feel that, to grieve for what happened to you when you need to. But it hasn’t been as difficult as you thought it would be. Right?”

“Right.” Wash tilts his head. “Do you know why?”

“Why, I think so,” she says brightly. “But so do _you_ , Wash.”

When he looks skeptical, she smiles encouragingly. “Go on. What has been the one major difference, between your trauma after they removed Epsilon, and this one?”

Wash pauses to think, and she lets him. He removes the necessary memories from their boxes, lays them out side by side, and steps back to look at them critically.

The memories from his time in Recovery are messy, jumbled things. Restraints around his wrists. Putting his fist through that window. Sessions with the Counselor. Dr. Tronosky outside his door. A broken, splintered mind, yawning and red and in so many pieces. Putting on his helmet, and hearing only static.

He does not spend too long dwelling on these memories, and turns instead to his newer ones. The difference is so obvious, so startling, that it takes his breath away. Caboose and Tucker, napping on opposite sides of hospital bed. Grif dumping chocolate bars in his lap. Epsilon telling him stories, Britton handing him his helmet, Ali shaking a can of spray paint. Simmons telling him solemnly of the scissor wizard. Sarge kicking people out of his hospital room. Telling Dr. Grey his story, bit by agonizing bit. Tucker’s mouth on his, tasting like shaving cream.

“People,” he says to Dr. Grey now. “I have people now.”

“And you let them _help_ you,” she says. “It wasn’t always easy, and there will still be moments when it isn’t, but…Wash, you let them help you. _You let us help you._ Do you understand how huge that is?”

He nods. “I…I think I do. I can—never thank you all—”

But she’s shaking her head fervently, reaching across the desk to clasp his hand. Wash lets her. “Wash, it is very kind of you to say that, but you don’t need to thank us. We were doing what we were supposed to do—as your doctors, and friends, and lover. _You_ are the one who accepted that help, and let it into your life.”

“Tucker says…well. He says I’ll always have people.”

“Tucker’s right,” she says. “He’s _absolutely right_. Because that’s the kind of person that you _are_.”

People. He has people, in a way that he never has before, people that helped put him back together. He needs to try, for them, to be, as Tucker put it, better than better. He needs to try for them—

And, he realizes for the first time, the realization dawning soft and slow like a sunrise, he needs to try for _himself,_ too.

“You mentioned medication a few times,” Wash says abruptly. “For—for my PTSD. Something that might help with my anxiety.”

She goes very still, but there is no change in her expression. “I certainly did. Would you like to talk about your options?”

“Yes,” Wash says. “I would.”

* * *

The pills are heavy in his hand as he walks towards the mess hall for an early lunch, but they feel less like a weight and more like an anchor. Tucker meets him halfway, and they walk together. It’s several minutes before he notices what’s in Wash’s hand. “Are those…are those pills?”

“Yeah. To help with my anxiety. I…” Wash looks at them. “I think you’re right. I’m going to try to take them.”

Tucker blinks a little. “You are? Really?”

“Really.” Wash hesitates. “I…I’m afraid I’ll forget to take them. Or come up with reasons not to. Will you…will you help me?”

Tucker stops walking, and Wash does as well, letting Tucker take his face between his hands. “ _Yes._ Of course. Fuck yes, I’ll set like fifteen alarms—”

Wash laughs. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

“I’ll help you,” Tucker says, determined. “I’ll help you remember.”

Wash leans forward to kiss him, resting his forehead briefly against Tucker’s before they continue making their way to the mess hall.

Lunch is a rowdy thing that day, filled with a strange, buzzing energy that seems to permeate the whole base. Wash soaks it in, sitting back to watch everyone. He thinks again of his armor, steel and yellow with little chips of blue. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to give it up completely, doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to put his guns in the ground, doesn’t know if he’ll ever truly get better.

_What is better?_

He has tried to make it a sprint, has considered that it might be a marathon, but now, uncurling his fingers to look at the little bottle of pills, he thinks it might be neither, thinks that _better_ might not be a thing with a finish line after all. He thinks that _better_ might be a house, one that he must continuously remember to open all the windows in. A wave, a spiral, a series of moments upon moments upon moments—a sugar bowl, old armor, his hair falling in bits around him, a helmet held in the rain. The faces of his friends, the lessons learned with his doctors, the growing confidence of his soldiers, the arms of his lover.

Each one of them an open window, in a house so long dark and damp.

Wash glances around at them all now in the mess hall. Carolina is arm wrestling Sarge across the table, Simmons is trying to steal his datapad back from Donut, with Grif caught in the middle. Tucker is examining Freckles, looking suspicious while Caboose chatters on proudly.

His gaze lingers on them for a moment before he looks down at the bottle in his hand. After a long moment, he uncaps the lid, tips one into his hand, and swallows it carefully.

He turns to the room inside his head, filled with boxes upon boxes, and he opens a window.


	41. Chapter 41

“Tucker. Hey, Tucker? Tucker, I have a question. Tucker. Tucker. Tucker. Tucker. Tucker—”

“Holy fucking Christ Caboose, WHAT?!”

“I am out of the special paper to print my pictures on.”

“That’s not a question, Caboose.”

“Is that a yes?”

Tucker sighs, begrudgingly setting down his datapad. “Caboose, I have like two pages left before I finish the first _Lord of the Rings_ book and Kimball’s been up my ass about it. Can this wait?”

“Fine.”

Ten seconds of blessed silence, and then—

“Um, Tucker?”

Tucker rubs a hand across his eyes, turning his datapad off. “Fine. Fine! _What?_ What do you want?”

“Paper,” Caboose says mournfully. “Special paper to print out the pictures I took on, so that I can hang them around my room.

Tucker eyes him. “Do you even have any more wall space?”

“That’s a silly question. I can just _make_ more wall space, Tucker.”

Whatever _that_ means. Tucker hastily wipes the statement from his memory, lest he be held accountable for the inevitable destruction of property. “Caboose, we are _not_ going on a supply run just so you can get paper.”

“But I _need_ it.”

“Yeah, well, I need some peace and quiet, but it doesn’t seem like I’m gonna get _that,_ now does it?”

Caboose says nothing, just continues to stare at Tucker with those gigantic eyes, which is ten time more distracting than his voice and he _knows_ Caboose knows that. “Let’s ask around. If enough people need shit, then we’ll see if Kimball and Doyle will let us go on a supply run. Alright?”

As it turns out, it’s not that hard. Tucker spends the better part of the morning gathering a list of what people need, and most of his afternoon trying to whittle that list down into something that the Generals aren’t going to throw in his face.

When he presents the list to Kimball, she barely glances at it. Tucker can’t decide if he’s relieved that she isn’t going to ask him why they need seven jars of coconut oil, or annoyed that he put all that effort into pruning the list in the first place. “Oh, what a good idea. I was hoping to organize one of these soon. We’re well stocked on ammunition and other military supplies, but we _are_ running low on hygienic and other basic supplies. I’m impressed with your initiative, Captain Tucker.”

“Right. Initiative.” Tucker coughs. “I’ll just give you this, then…”

“Oh no,” she says absently. “No, I’ll just send you over my list and you can take the lead.”

“Take the lead?”

She glances up. “Well, yes. On the supply run. Get a master list together, organize a team, select the leaders, and bring back what we need.”

“Sure,” Tucker says, unsure of why he feels so flustered. “Uh, does Doyle have a list of shit he wants?”

“I have no idea what that man does or doesn’t want,” Kimball snaps, and Tucker drops _that_ topic like a fucking hot potato.

“Never mind, I’ll ask him myself,” he says hastily. “I’ll get a list from both of you and uh, I’ll figure it all out at the meeting tomorrow.”

“Excellent,” she says, still breathing rather heavily. “Yes, good.”

Tucker casts around for a change of subject. “Oh! I finished that first _Lord of the Rings_ book!”

Kimball lights up like a Christmas tree. “You _did?_ Oh, I want to hear _everything_ you thought…”

* * *

It isn’t until much later that Tucker clues in on just what it was about his conversation with Kimball that made him feel so odd. _Trust,_ he realizes, as he reclines back on his bed that evening and waits for Wash to arrive. It was the trust that she’d placed in him, trust to run the mission and get the supplies they needed and not fuck it all up, even though he’s almost positive that he doesn’t deserve it. He feels guilty every time he thinks about the ways in which he’s let Kimball down, and he does not want to break her trust again.

Trust. _Wash trusts me,_ Tucker thinks when Wash arrives, when he lets Tucker guide him to his knees and secure his limbs with the knots he’d practiced so meticulously. Tucker will never get over it, the way Wash doesn’t flinch when Tucker touches the back of his neck, the way he tilts towards Tucker like he is the sun. Tucker could do _anything_ to him when he’s like this, anything at all, and Wash trusts him to not only not hurt him, but to make him feel _good._

He’s been struggling to find a foothold for so long, through years of being manipulated and lied to, by the military, by Project Freelancer, by _Felix_. The world is still a whirlwind but he has more than just a foothold here: he has _control_ here, in this room with Wash, with the blue rope. He has complete control because Wash has surrendered his. It makes Tucker feel confident and powerful and unbearably tender. It makes him feel the opposite of stupid, because even though he might _do_ a stupid thing or make a mistake, Wash trusts him to fix it.

Wash _trusts_ him.

It’s nearly two hours later, after Wash has gone to pieces under Tucker’s hands, after Tucker’s made him drink water, after they’ve both taken a long nap, that Tucker thinks of the supply run again. Tucker peppers his face with kisses and reaches for the supply of chocolate bars he’d traded Grif a week of dish duty for. “Aw,” he says, making a face as he hands the last chocolate bar to Wash. “Last one.”

Wash blinks at him slowly, still with that giddy, wrung-out expression as he takes the chocolate bar. “I’ll savor it.”

“I’ll get you some more dude, don’t worry…” Tucker snaps his fingers, reaching for his datapad to make a note. “That reminds me! I’ll get some on the supply run.”

Wash eats the chocolate bar thoughtfully, watching Tucker. “There’s going to be a supply run?”

“Sure is,” Tucker says, climbing back into bed. “You need anything?”

Wash thinks. “More laundry detergent.”

Tucker gives him a look. “Yeah, I got all the boring stuff on lock, dude. I mean, any _fun_ stuff?”

“It’s a supply run, Tucker.”

He grins. “ _Exactly,_ Wash.”

“Hmmm,” is all Wash says. He’s finished his chocolate and is half asleep already, so Tucker takes the wrapper out of his hands and lays them both down, the darkening sky spilling starlight across their bodies.

* * *

There’s a rather alarming number of people waiting for him in the war meeting room the next day, and Tucker freezes momentarily in the doorway. He supposes here’s no more people here than in their usual supply run preparatory meetings, but it looks entirely different now that _he’s_ the one at the front of the room. Tucker hangs out near the back for a while, and when it appears that everyone has arrived, he heads up front. The room goes quiet, and Wash gives in an encouraging nod from one of the front tables.

“Hi,” Tucker says lamely. Grif doesn’t trouble to hide his helmet roll. “What’s up everybody? Let me think, uh…speech…speech…”

“We don’t need a _speech_ , sir,” Bitters says flatly. “It’s just a supply run.”

Tucker snaps his fingers, pointing at Bitters. “Ten points to Captain Obvious in the front row there!”

When the tittering dies down, Tucker clears his throat again. “Alright, so, you all know the drill. I’ve got a list from each of the Generals here, and I’ve compiled everyone’s personal requests onto a third list. We’ll divvy this shit up, bang it out, and bring it on home. Sound good? Good. Now, we’ll need two people to take point on the supply run—”

“Dibs!”

There’s a moment of stunned silence before everyone turns slowly to look at Wash. He’s sitting forward in his seat, grinning slightly, hand raised as if they’re in grade school. Tucker blinks. “What?”

“I called dibs.” Wash glances around at them all, clears his throat and puts his hand down. “I mean. I would like to lead one of the supply run teams.”

Across the room, Grif folds his arms across his chest and huffs. “ _You_ can’t lead a supply run team.”

Wash turns to him, the absolute picture of innocence. “Why not, Captain Grif?”

“Because you just _can’t_ ,” Grif says through gritted teeth. “You’ve never even _been_ on a supply run. It should be someone who know where everything is, someone like—”

“Someone like _you?_ ”

Tucker can see the exact moment where Grif realizes the trap he’s fallen into, the one Wash has sprung to finally get to the bottom of the mystery of where they’re getting all the goods. “Well—not necessarily _me_ —”

Wash is already pulling out datapad, and has the mission records up in five seconds flat. “You know what, Captain Grif? It appears that you are in fact the only one who has been on _every single_ supply run thus far! I think _you_ should be the one to lead it.”

Grif eyes him cautiously. “So…does that mean you’re not going, then?”

“Oh no, I’m going,” Wash says brightly. “You and I can both run this. _Together._ And you can show me all the good spots. It’s probably smart to have a few people who know them all. Don’t you agree, Captain Grif?”

Tucker isn’t the only one who watches Grif wage what looks like a painful internal struggle. Grif shoots a silent look at Simmons and Donut, who apparently manage to convey something of value with their eyebrows and shoulder shrugs alone, because Grif sets his own shoulders and locks gazes with Wash. “I think that’s a goddamn _splendid_ idea.”

* * *

Tucker isn’t sure who he enjoys watching more: Wash, trying desperately to make sense of Tucker’s list of items they need to procure on the supply run, or _Grif_ , desperately trying to add more items to the list in hopes that Wash won’t notice.

“But _why_ do you need twenty different colors of nail polish?” Wash asks in despair.

“Oh, did I type twenty? I missed a digit.” Grif wrests the datapad away from Wash, makes his edit, and hands it back. Wash blanches.

“My question still stands. Why do you need _one hundred and twenty colors_ of nail polish?!” He throws up a hand as Grif makes to answer. “You know what, new question. Why do you need nail polish at _all?_ ”

“ _Because,_ Wash,” Grif says, with the air of explaining something to a five-year-old, “the salon has a nail bar in it. I have one hundred and twenty color requests from Donut on here, and if Donut and his manicure bar aren’t happy, then _I’m_ not happy.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s _business_.”

“Grif, these supply runs are _risky_. You’re asking people to risk their lives for _nail_ polish?”

“It’s not about the nail polish.”

Wash and Grif both turn in surprise to see a faintly pink Simmons standing with his head held high. Tucker bites back a grin as Wash clears his throat. “I’m sorry?”

“I said, it’s not _about_ the nail polish. Sir.”

“Then _what_ , pray tell, is it about?” Wash asks, exasperated. He glances down at the datapad. “Why do we need seventeen colors of pink, one of which is, and I quote, _Very Berry Merry Cherry?_ ”

“Because that’s Sabine’s favorite color of nail polish.”

Wash stares at him. Simmons glances uncertainly at Grif, whose expression is unreadable, before turning back to Wash. “Sabine hates everything,” he says, as if that explains it.

“Okay…”

“Sabine hates _everything_ and she’s mad _all_ the fucking time but—she doesn’t hate her weekly manicures. Alright? And Carolina is much happier when her roots aren’t showing. And the only time Perry relaxes these days is when he gets a massage in the massage chair. And god forbid Tucker’s hair doesn’t look fucking perfect every minute of the day. And—and I know that place means something to you, too.”

“I—”

But Simmons is on a roll, a slightly manic gleam in his eyes. “And you know what? That salon is pretty much the only normal goddamn thing this army has to look forward to these days. So, _yes_. I think that everyone going on this mission is more than happy to risk their life to get Sabine’s _Very Berry Merry Cherry_ nail polish. Or more hair dye developer. Or watermelons for the watermelon slushies that we serve. And I think that Grif’s salon is…is…”

“ _Magical_ ,” Donut whispers, and Simmons nods fiercely.

“Yes. Thank you, Donut. That salon is magical, and I think that getting all one hundred and twenty colors on that list is just as important as getting more ammunition. So…so that’s what I think about that… _sir_.”

Tucker turns back to Wash, who is glancing from Simmons to his datapad with a peculiar expression. Grif is flat out gaping at him, jaw hanging open, while Simmons refuses to meet his eye.

“Well,” Wash says finally. “In that case, it looks to me as if we’re going to need a bigger supply run team.”

* * *

The morning of the supply run is one of the most beautiful days Chorus has seen in a long time. Tucker isn’t sure if it’s the weather, or the supply run, or the fact that it’s Private Britton’s first mission with her new robotic arm, but an almost giddy mood has swept over the entire mission team. Tucker watches, amused, as Wash desperately tries to wrangle them into formation and nearly has a heart attack when Britton takes her helmet off to “feel the sunshine.”

“But Agent Washington, it’s been so _long_ …”

“So long since _what_?” Wash asks, exasperated. “Since you felt the sun? We did outdoor training _yesterday,_ Private Britton. Put your helmet back on. _Now_.”

She sighs, but complies. Tucker takes pity on Wash and helps him manage the rest of the squad, while Grif confidently leads their group. As they walk, Tucker catches wind of the conversation between some of the cadets, which seems to be yet another thrilling retelling of their armor rescue mission.

“So _then,_ we hear this noise. I mean, we’d been hearing noises all day, so it shouldn’t have tipped me off, but I don’t know, there was just something about _this particular_ noise, ya know?”

Tucker doesn’t see how anyone in the army _couldn’t_ know what the noise was, seeing as how the cadets have each told various iterations of the story of their mission to retrieve Wash’s armor about seven hundred times. He has to give them begrudging points for consistency: it seems that it is one of those rare stories where the actual events make for a far better story than any embellishments.

Private Silver, apparently, hasn’t heard this story yet, because she sounds absolutely breathless. “What was the noise?”

“The _noise_ ,” Palomo says dramatically, “was the sound of a grenade pin hitting the ground.”

“We thought we were _goners,_ ” Britton adds, picking up the story at her usual place. “But _then_ Andersmith appears out of _nowhere_ and…”

They move in small groups, sticking to the shadows, despite the fact they’ve no reason to believe there will be any enemy activity in this section of the city. It’s less than a mile before they reach the entrance to the familiar underground tunnel, and Wash eyes it, alarmed. “Okay, really, someone needs to tell me exactly where we’re going now.”

He startles a little when Grif turns around, putting a solemn hand on his shoulder. “Wash. I need you to trust me on this. Can you do that?”

“I…” Wash sighs. “ _Fine._ Lead on.”

It takes a few minutes for all two dozen of them to clamber down the ladder, and they have to make their way single file through the drainage system. They follow Grif through the twisting tunnels, and eventually come to a connecting man-made tunnel. As they approach the end, Tucker stops, putting a hand on Wash’s chest and fishing something out of one of his armor pockets. “I have a map for you.”

Wash stares. “You have a _paper map_ for me?”

“Yes.”  Tucker presses it into his hand reverently. “Guard it with your life.”

He bites back a laugh as Wash unfolds the glossy paper, watches him take in the meticulously labeled stores, the map legend, and the bright _YOU ARE HERE_ marker. “Is this...is this a _mall map?_ ”

“Welcome,” Grif says dramatically, “to the Mall of Armonia.”

He pushes open the doors to reveal the mall entrance, and Tucker has to turn his snicker into a hasty cough at the way Wash’s voice pitches. “A mall? An underground _mall?_ _That’s_ where you’ve been getting all of this stuff?! Nail polish and chocolate and v…and _other_ things? A mall? _You’ve been going shopping at the mall?_ ”

“Wash,” Grif says in a dignified tone, “this is a very nuanced mission. It requires extreme attention to detail—”

“Oh my _God_ —”

“—and a keen eye for prioritization. You can only carry out so many salon chairs per supply run, you know. Besides, it isn’t _shopping_ , no one even works here anymore. We’re on our own down here.”

Wash sputters for a few more seconds before falling silent. He casts his eyes heavenward before squaring his shoulders. “Right. Lead on, Captain Grif.”

“Wait…” Tucker holds out a hand. “We have to check the motion trackers first. Simmons?”

“Looks to be clear,” Simmons says absently. He’s got his datapad out and is going through the mall cameras one by one, and checking the status of the trip wires they’d set up. “We’re good to go. No one’s been here.”

“You set up trip wires?” Wash asks, sounding faintly impressed. “That’s….really smart.”

Simmons tears his gaze away from the cameras long enough to shoot Wash a look. “This isn’t an _amateur_ supply run, Wash. This stuff is important.”

“Alright,” Tucker motions for the group to be quiet, raising his own voice. “You all know the drill. No one goes off alone. Maintain radio contact at all times, mandatory check-ins every five minutes. We rendezvous back here in an hour. Everyone got that?”

With a series of salutes, the team disperses. Tucker makes his way to where Wash is staring at him with what he is sure is an exasperated expression. “Pretty cool, huh?”

“A mall? _Really?_ ”

“Dude, it’s genius and you know it.”

“I don’t know…” Wash glances around. “It seems rather risky. It’s so big and—wouldn’t _Felix_ know about this?”

“Nah, Kimball says she never told him. Besides, that fucker thought he was way too good for supply runs.”

“I’m not surprised—wait, did you say _Kimball_ knows about this place?!”

Tucker laughs, gesturing with his rifle further into the mall. “Come on. Let’s get on it. We’ve got a long ass list to get through.”

The way Wash sighs lets Tucker know he’s won, and sure enough, he begins following Tucker through the mall. “Where to first?”

“To get your chocolate, of course. It’s just around the corner.”

“But what about the hygienic products that we—”

“Dude, we’ll get there, alright? The drugstore is all the way across the mall. For now….” He tugs Wash into a store, sweeping his arms dramatically. “Check this out.”

“But—oh my _God_.”

Tucker grins, delighted, at the way Wash’s voice has gone all breathless as he spins in a slow circle, taking in the sheer amount of candy in the store. “Tucker, there’s…there’s _so much chocolate_.”

“Yeah, dude. There’s so much chocolate.”

Tucker leans back against the wall and watches in amusement as Wash undergoes what seems to be a painful internal struggle. “Well,” Wash says slowly. “I mean, it is just _sitting_ here.”

“Sure is.”

“It would be wasteful if we were to just let it go bad.”

“True, true.”

After another moment, Wash grabs one of the little plastic bags that’s still sitting behind the cash register. “Well, alright. I’ll just take a few of these—”

_“STOP RIGHT THERE!”_

They are both reaching for their guns when Grif materializes in the doorway, pointing an accusing finger at Wash. “ _NOT_ another step.”

“ _Dude_ ,” Tucker says reproachfully. His heart is still hammering. “You broke rule three of the supply run code.”

Wash sighs. “Dare I ask what rule three of the supply run code is?”

“Rule three is that no one acts like an asshole.” Tucker glares at Grif. “Which _means_ no yelling like a fucking lunatic, Jesus _Christ_.”

“But Tucker,” Grif says plaintively, “he’s going for the Milky Ways. Those are _my_ Milky Ways.”

“Says _who?_ ” Wash asks. “This is a….a public mall—”

“Says _me!_ I found the public mall!”

“Actually, we’d been coming here for years before you guys showed up.”

“No one _asked_ , Bitters!”

Bitters rolls his helmet from where he’d paused in the doorway and moves on. Wash folds his arms across his chest. “Caboose doesn’t know about this store. Does he?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Grif says airily.

“All this time, you’ve been acting as if chocolate was a rare item on this planet, and as it turns out, there’s a whole stockpile of chocolate here!”

“Oh, let’s not get ridiculous. This isn’t Charlie’s goddamn _chocolate_ factory—”

“It may as well be!”

“Look, Caboose has _his_ priorities, okay? He’s across the mall in the old art supply store, pilfering as many reams of photo paper and crayons as he can possibly carry—which, I’ll have you know, is a _lot._ Am I over there helping myself to his crayons? No. I am _not_.”

“Because you don’t _care_ about crayons!”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” Tucker says loudly, “except that that’s exactly what I wanna fucking do. Can we like, wrap this shit up? You guys are burning up our hour. Grif, get your shit and leave. Wash, fill the bag with chocolate.”

The two of them eye each other and pick out their chocolate, while Tucker huffs the whole time. Grif moves more efficiently, grabbing his stash and leaving, and Tucker turns to Wash, whose bag is still only half full. “Wash, _really_.”

“There’s just so many different kinds,” Wash says wistfully.

“Dude, it’s not gonna vanish overnight. Get that shit with the caramel in it that you like and we’ll call it a day, alright? I wanna show you something else.”

Wash sighs, but puts a little pep in his step and fills his bag with candy. He places it carefully in the extra armor pouch he’d attached to his back, and follows Tucker out of the store.

They pass a few other soldiers, carrying everything from stuffed animals to shampoo to underwear. Tucker watches as the check-ins come in on his HUD, with their position, status, and list of items, and he can tell Wash is doing the same thing. “This is…rather organized,” he says. “It still makes me a little nervous, but…well. I suppose I’m not really surprised.”

“Not surprised that it’s organized, or not surprised that we’ve been doing our supply runs in an abandoned shopping mall?”

“Both.”

They finally reach their destination and Tucker grabs Wash’s elbow, grinning. “Alright, dude. Destination number _two._ ”

“I can hardly—” Wash stops dead in the doorway of the store. “Tucker!”

Tucker widens his eyes innocently, even though he knows Wash can’t see them. “What?”

“This is a…a…” he glances around, then drops his voice even though no one else is around. “An _adult store_.”

“You mean a sex store.”

“Tucker, for god’s _sake_.”

“Dude, seriously. Where did you think I was getting like, vibrators and an endless supply of condoms?” Tucker waves his hands. “This is _it,_ Wash. This is the motherland.”

“The motherland.”

“Come _on_.” Tucker grabs his hand and pulls him farther into the shop. “Pick something out.”

He may as well have asked Wash to surrender all his weapons. _“WHAT?”_

Tucker makes his voice get all low and sexy. “You know. Pick something out that you want me to use on you.”

“You’re joking.”

“Wash, I have literally never been more serious.”

Wash refuses to answer him, but he does edge a little closer into the shop. “Can’t believe I’m spending our supply run in a sex shop,” he mutters, as Tucker stocks up on condoms and lube.

“I know, isn’t it great?” He takes one more look around, then jerks his head towards the door. “Alright, let’s roll.”

He’s almost at the door when he hears Wash’s voice tumble out in a rush. “What about something like that?”

Tucker turns around, confused at first, then delighted, then horny to discover that Wash is pointing at— “A flogger? Oh my God, really?”

He can practically _hear_ Wash’s blush. “Well—I mean—”

“Holy shit, you _are_. You’re _so_ serious.” He sweeps the flogger that Wash is eyeing into his bag so quickly that he almost pulls something in his shoulder, overriding Wash’s mumbling. “Fucking _genius._ ”

It’s tempting to tease Wash even further, but Tucker resists, and settles for concocting an elaborate plan as to just what they’re going to do the next time they both have several hours off. Neither one of them really need anything else, so after retrieving the long list of hygiene products they need, the two of them settle for wandering the mall and checking on the rest of the teams. They pass Caboose coloring in the middle of the hallway, Donut giving himself a manicure in the old salon, and the cadets clustered around an old soda machine. There’s a lot of giggling and shrieking as Britton breaks the whole thing open with her robot arm and distributes the sodas to everyone.

Prajapati tosses one to him and Wash, and as they both pop the cans and tip some of the fizzy liquid through the intake valves in their helmets. They stay there for a while, sipping soda and watching the cadets bound around the food court, and for just a moment, Tucker lets himself forget the fact that they’re in armor, that the mall lights are flickering, that there are still check-ins popping up in the corner of his HUD, letting him know that his squads are alive. He wonders if he’ll ever have this for _real,_ a day out with his friends where they aren’t all carrying assault rifles and combat knives. It seems like a dream, one that he doesn’t know if he’ll ever have—

But sitting on the edge of an old waterfont, his shoulder bumping up occasionally against Wash’s as the cadets chase each other around, Tucker thinks that if he has this much, it can be okay.

It’s _better_ than okay.

* * *

They make it back to Armonia without incident, and are greeted at the gates to their base by Carolina and Sarge, the latter of whom, Tucker notes at once, is still sulking about not being allowed to go on the supply run. He instantly moves to start yanking their latest retrieved salon chair inside the base, and an exasperated Carolina puts a firm hand on his shoulder. “Sarge, your _stitches._ ”

“M’stitches are fine!” Sarge says bracingly. “ _Why_ I’ve still got the dang things in the first place…”

Tucker exchanges a look with Wash as they all begin carting their crates to the supply room. Simmons lights up immediately at the opportunity to organize things, _and boss people around,_ Tucker thinks privately, and they get to work putting everything away. Tucker finds himself glancing repeatedly at Sarge, thinking with sudden guilt of those stitches, and how he’d gotten them in the first place. He’s gotten so used to them all getting injuries and saving each other’s lives that he hadn’t even thought twice about the fact that if Sarge hadn’t shielded Tucker and Dr. Grey, there’s a good chance they’d both be dead.

He skulks around Sarge for a while, keeping a careful distance as he tries to figure out what to say, if anything. Should he make a joke? Try to have a _moment_ or something? Say _thank you_ and hope Sarge will know what he’s talking about?

“Something I can help you with, aqua man?”

Tucker nearly bounces off Sarge’s chest plate as he turns around. Apparently, he wasn’t keeping as close of a distance as he thought. “You should sit down,” he blurts, “before you pop a stitch or like, break a knee or something.”

Sarge grunts. “Why is everyone so concerned about my damn stitches?!”

“I’m just saying,” Tucker mumbles, “that was a huge fucking explosion. You’re lucky you didn’t die. You _could’ve,_ you know—”

“This supposed to be some sort of thank you?”

“Jesus _Christ,”_ Tucker snaps, and moves to stomp away.

“You wanna say thanks, then you can help me take point on this next mission! To hear the good generals talk, it’s going to be quite a doozy! Fraught with peril and—”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Wait, _what_ next mission?”

“The mission to one of Charon’s research complexes.”

Tucker turns to see Carolina heading over to them. “We figure it’s about time we figure out just what Charon wanted to study on this planet so badly.”

“Seems like an awful lot of alien magic mumbo-jumbo,” Sarge adds. “Figure you might be of some use. You know. With the sword. And the alien baby. And all that.”

“ _And all that,”_ Tucker echoes. “Yeah, I’m in. Is it just the four of us?”

He gestures at Carolina and Sarge, the latter of whom grunts. “I only count three.”

“I’m including Church,” Tucker says impatiently. “Come on, dramatic mission where he might get to play the hero? I _know_ he isn’t passing that shit up.”

Right on cue, Epsilon pops up over Carolina’s shoulder, crossing his arms. “Oh, _I’m_ the one who plays the hero?! _Me?_ I’m not the one who goes running into _knives_ —”

“Oh, come on, that was _one_ time!”

“Yeah, well.” Epsilon coughs. “Let’s not make it two.”

Just then, there’s a slight commotion across the room as Grif starts pawing through Simmons’ meticulously organized shelves to find his favorite cereal. Sarge goes storming off to yell at them both, and with a weary sigh, Carolina follows.

“Red Team,” Epsilon and Tucker mutter at the same time, and it feels kind of nice, standing here with Church. Not Alpha, he knows, but for the first time, he thinks that that might be okay. Maybe. He remembers the way Epsilon had screamed inside his head when the knife had sunk into Tucker’s stomach, and looks up at him now.

“I won’t.”

Epsilon is still watching Carolina and Sarge trying to wrangle Grif and Simmons. “Huh?”

“Get stabbed again. I won’t do that.”

Epsilon turns to him sharply. “Oh,” he says after a moment. “Yeah. That’d be good. ‘Cause that whole thing kinda sucked.”

“Yeah,” Tucker says. “It did.”

They stand there for a moment, before Carolina calls Epsilon’s name and he goes to her. Tucker watches him go, grinning. He thinks, quite suddenly, of Junior, and what he’s doing at that very moment. Discussion of the alien temples and tech have brought his son right to the forefront of his thoughts, and all at once Tucker can’t _wait_ to talk to him in a few days. Junior will tell him all about basketball and his friends and school, and Tucker can tell him about the supply run and—

As if he’d been planning to do it all along, he crosses the room at once to where Wash has gotten involved in the Red Team supply run drama, and is in a full debate with Simmons over whether the shampoo should be alphabetized or color-coded. “How about neither?” Grif offers, from where he’s lounging on several sacks of flour, eating cereal out of the box. “Just throw that shit on a shelf and call it a day.”

“Shut up, Grif,” they both say in unison, then glare at each other.

Simmons swells. “It doesn’t make any _sense_ to have them color-coded—”

“Yeah, sure, sounds great,” Tucker interjects, hand fastening around Wash’s elbow. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

“I…” Wash glances once more at the shampoo before relenting. “Fine.”

He casts a despairing glance over his shoulder as Tucker drags him away, to where Simmons has immediately begun reorganizing. “It’s so much easier to find if it’s color-coded,” he mutters.

“Definitely,” Tucker says vaguely. “Hey, uh, Wash?”

“Hmm?”

“So…so you know how I talk to Junior every week?”

“Of course.”

“I talk to him on Wednesdays and, uh…well. Wednesday is in a few days.”

“Yes, yes.”

“I was thinking he might like to meet you.”

Wash stops craning his neck to look at Simmons at once, whipping his head around to face Tucker so fast that Tucker’s surprised it doesn’t roll right off. “You…what?”

“Only if you want,” Tucker hastens to add. “I mean, if you aren’t ready that’s cool. Kids are a big step and I know it’s probably a little weird, ‘cause you fought in the war against the aliens and all—I mean, so did _I,_ but you like _really_ fought in it—but I was just thinking. I mean, I talk about you a lot—he _says_ I talk about you a lot—and I know he’d like to meet you, and I thought you’d like to meet him too. Maybe. If you want. It doesn’t have to be this week, I just—”

“Tucker.” Wash catches one of his flailing hands and traps it against his own chest. “I would love to meet your son.”

“Really?”

Tucker kind of hates how he sounds, like he’s been peeled open for all the world to see, but he couldn’t hide it even if he tried. Besides, Wash’s responding, “ _Really,_ ” is just as soft and sappy, so Tucker decides he doesn’t care.

“Great,” he says. “ _Great!_ We talk at night, usually around seven, so…”

“I’ll be there.”

They’re both wearing helmets and surrounded by people, so Tucker can’t kiss the life out of him just yet, but he figures he can always make up for that later.

He does.

* * *

Whenever Tucker talks to Junior, he thinks of the _after_.

Hearing his son’s voice never fails to unlock the tension in his spine, or to clear any clouds from his mind. When Junior speaks he thinks of sunlight, and ice cream, and a house with a big driveway for Junior to play basketball in. It normally seems so far away, a dream that will never be realized, but seeing Junior never fails to ignite a fierce, burning desire in him, a promise that Tucker has made to himself over and over:

His son will _never_ have to use a gun.

Junior’s face appears on his datapad, mandibles curling immediately, and everything in Tucker relaxes. “Hey, kiddo. How’s life?”

Junior immediately launches into a story about basketball practice that has Tucker grinning. Wash isn’t here yet, but Tucker isn’t worried—if Wash said he was going to come, then he’d come.

Sure enough, the door opens five minutes later, and Wash slides inside. “Sorry,” he whispers. “Got caught up in a meeting.”

“No no, it’s cool!” He straightens up from where he’s reclining against the bed, propping his datapad up against a pillow in front of him. “Hey uh, Junior? There’s someone I want you to meet.”

He waves Wash over, who climbs on the bed to sit next to Tucker. Tucker’s chest suddenly feels fluttery. He hadn’t realized the enormity of the moment until he was in it, and he clears his throat. “Um. I’ve talked to you about Wash before, right bud?”

Junior’s expression couldn’t be more exasperated. “Father, you talk about Wash like, _all the time_.”

Tucker huffs as Wash snickers, but some of the butterflies in his chest quiet. “Okay, very funny. So…so _Wash,_ this is Junior, Junior, Wash.”

“Hi, Junior,” Wash says, sounding only a little nervous. “You father talks about you a lot, too.”

Junior is eyeing him critically. “Are you and father bonded?”

“Are we…what, I’m sorry?”

“He means—”

“Are you his boyfriend?” Junior rephrases, and Tucker casts his eyes heavenward.

“Junior, oh my _God_.”

“What? I was just _asking!_ ”

“I…” Wash glances at Tucker, who nods a little. “Yes. We—we are.”

Junior doesn’t look surprised. “I _thought_ so, but then he stopped talking about you for a while and was sad, so I thought you broke up.”

Sometimes, Tucker forgets just how young his son is, and is always reminded of it when he speaks so bluntly. “That’s because Wash was…Wash was…”

“I was taken prisoner,” Wash says. He looks at Tucker. “Your father saved my life.”

“ _Really_?” Junior asks, sounding intrigued. “That sounds badass.”

“Hey!” Tucker protests. “What’s with the surprise? I do badass things all the time!”

“Sometimes,” Junior allows, and Wash laughs.

Tucker adjusts himself against the wall slightly so that he can observe Wash and Junior at the same time. The fluttery feeling is back in his chest, but this time it isn’t born from nerves. It’s something else entirely, a sort of reverse sense of déjà vu: that he is looking, not at his past, but at his future.

At his _family_.

The three of them talk for nearly an hour and by the end of it, Tucker has smiled so much that his face hurts. They say good-bye to Junior and Wash turns to him, slightly nervous as he traces the dimples on Tucker’s cheeks. “Was that okay?”

Tucker tackles him in a hug, blowing raspberries on the side of Wash’s neck until Wash is laughing so hard he can barely breathe. “It was perfect,” Tucker says giddily. “You were perfect. He totally loved you. Did you…I mean, you liked him too, right?”

“Of _course_ ,” Wash says immediately. “What’s not to like?”

Tucker just buries his face in the crook of Wash’s neck again, grinning like a maniac. “Wait ‘til you meet him in person. Fuck, it looks like he’s gotten even _bigger!_ When he was born I could hold him in one hand, like _this_ …”

He pulls back to demonstrate, and Wash watches him with a smile. They go to bed soon after, and although Tucker is still buzzing with a happy energy, he lets Wash run his fingers through his hair, and he doesn’t fight the eventual pull of sleep.

After all, Tucker has a mission to kick ass on tomorrow and he feels— _he feels_ —

He feels like _dancing._

**END PART THREE**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO EMOTIONAL RIGHT NOW.
> 
> One more to go, my friends. I will be posting this fic's epilogue tomorrow. I cannot possibly thank you all enough for sticking with me and this story. Let's bring 'em home.
> 
> ONE LAST FANART ROLL CALL:  
> >> [Tucker & Wash (w/ short hair!)](http://gaveremy.tumblr.com/post/156914623103/i-havent-posted-art-in-a-while-so-i-drew-these) by [gaveremy](http://gaveremy.tumblr.com)  
> >> [The kiss in the shower](http://hezart.tumblr.com/post/157046293489/wash-feels-his-face-crumple-and-tucker-surges) by [Heza](http://hezart.tumblr.com)  
> >> [Fine](https://crabbiekat.tumblr.com/post/155546026455/what-does-one-do-when-one-is-trapped-on-a-train) by [crabbiekat](http://crabbiekat.tumblr.com)
> 
> CRABBIE ALSO WROTE ANOTHER SONG FOR THIS FIC THAT I LOSE MY MIND ON OVER A DAILY BASIS JAFDKL;AJGW;LEF PLEASE GIVE IT A LISTEN [HERE!!](https://crabbiekat.tumblr.com/post/155497553645/so-the-latest-3-chapters-or-so-of-pmgitg-got-to-me) She is a m a z i n g
> 
> Speaking of music, I have made playlists for parts one and two of this fic, that can be found on either playmoss or spotify if you're interested! I will be making a part three as well. You can find them here: [PART ONE](http://littlefists.tumblr.com/post/156263332739/put-my-guns-in-the-ground-playlist-part-one) and [PART TWO](http://littlefists.tumblr.com/post/156246598139/put-my-guns-in-the-ground-playlist-part-two%22). The cover art for both of these playlists was done by my beta, [Melissa](http://hammeredpaint.tumblr.com). I ALSO NEED TO MAKE NOTE OF THE FACT THAT HAVING THE SUPPLY RUN TAKE PLACE IN AN ABANDONED MALL WAS ENTIRELY HER IDEA AND I FUCKING LOVED IT. We'd be here all day if I listed all of the influence she's had on this fic, but that was something directly from her own stories that she let me use so I wanted to mention it.
> 
> **One more to go**. I'll see you guys in the other side...


	42. Chapter 42

**EPILOGUE**

_Knock, knock, knockin’ on heaven’s door._

_Knock, knock knocking—_

 

* * *

 

 

Later, much later, there is a house on a hilltop.

It overlooks one of Chorus’s most beautiful, sparkling lakes; the grass surrounding it is lush and green. The house has robin’s egg blue shutters standing bright against its pristine white frame, and is surrounded by—

“A white picket fence,” Tucker marvels. “ _Well_. I’ll be damned. Shit man, it’s got a fucking basketball hoop in the driveway already and _everything_.”

He’s positively _beaming_ as he turns to their realtor and asks, “So who do I have to blow around here to make sure we get this house?”

“Tucker!” Wash hisses. He gives an apologetic glance to the realtor before leaning closer to Tucker and speaking in an undertone. “Are you sure? It’s only the second one we’ve looked at.”

He tries to hide the wistfulness on his face as he looks once more at the lake, but Tucker grins and he doesn’t think he quite managed it.

“But you love it,” Tucker says, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. “So, yeah, I’m sure.”

“But do _you_ love it?”

“Dude, I don’t care where we live. Like, at _all._ I care about two things. One, that it has high ceilings so that Junior can easily walk around, and two, that I get to bang you in every single room in whatever house we buy. This one seems as good as any, ya know?”

The realtor sputters as Tucker leans in and kisses Wash square on the mouth. “I’m thinking we get started sooner rather than later, how about you?”

Wash does.

The house is small, only two bedrooms, but it’s clean and full of sunlight. Wash stands there in the doorway on the day that they move in, clutching his only suitcase in one hand and the pillow that Donut had gifted him with in the other, looking around with his heart in his throat.

Tucker wastes no time in barging past him, dumping his own single duffle bag on the floor. “I don’t know about _you,_ but I’m starving. What do you say we walk into town and get some—” he falters when he sees Wash, still standing just outside the living room and looking around. “What’s up?”

“I…” Wash fights down the urge to say that it’s nothing, an urge that’s still familiar and can be hard to fight some days. “I—it’s just—it’s so _clean._ I didn’t realize that it would be like that. So…clean.”

Something twists on Tucker’s face, sharp and painful before he sets his jaw. “Sure is.” He holds out a hand to Wash, winking. “What do you say we dirty it up a little, _hmmm_ baby?”

Wash laughs. He’s still laughing when he steps through the doorway, when he takes Tucker’s hands, when he kisses him, long and languid. Tucker opens their single blanket with a flourish, spreading it out on the floor, flopping down and striking a provocative pose.

Wash thinks that if he were to believe in heaven, it would feel a little something like this: the sound of the lake lapping lazily at the shore, the autumn light spilling across the hardwood floors; the way that the sun shines on Tucker on top of him, touching every scar, illuminating every shade in his brown eyes. When Tucker presses his palms to Wash’s chest, Wash holds them there for a moment, letting Tucker feel his heart beating beneath them, _alive, alive, alive—_

“It’s yours,” Wash gasps. “It’s always yours.”

He’s too far gone to explain further than that, lost in a haze of pleasure and giddiness and love, but Tucker’s breath stutters and he looks at Wash with wide eyes blown nearly black.

“Now what?” Tucker asks after, as they lay together on their only blanket, heads touching on their only pillow. “I mean…what the fuck do we even _do_ now?”

Wash knows what he means. Having no plans or obligations, while a bit thrilling, is still a rather daunting prospect, and Wash is grateful that he is not the only one who is nervous at what the future holds.

“I have no fucking idea,” he says, and Tucker laughs, smacking him on the chest.

“Real helpful, dude.”

Wash grins, turning on his side so that he’s facing Tucker. “Really, though. I thought…I thought we could bring Junior here before we do anything else. Show him his new room. And his basketball hoop in the driveway.”

Tucker’s breath catches in his throat, and there’s that look again: like Wash himself hung the sun in the sky, like Tucker isn’t convinced that he’s real. It _floors_ him, even now, that someone could look at him that way, someone like _Tucker_ , who is everything bright and beautiful and brave.

“Really?”

“Really.” Wash reaches over to cup Tucker’s face, running a thumb across his cheekbone. “I think it’s time that we bring your son home.”

Tucker kisses him, closing the gap so fast that it leaves Wash reeling. Wash had met Junior, and while they’d had several conversations about all three of them living together, Wash thinks he knows why this is different. It’s _real,_ now, all of it: their house, with its robin’s egg blue shutters, its picket fence, its lovely lake.

The future is _real,_ and it is theirs.

“I love you,” Tucker says when their lips part. It is neither breathless or reverent, the way it had been those first few times. The way it falls from his lips is automatic and easy, as if it is something he would say every morning.

Wash thinks that it just might be.

“I love you too.”

Tucker beams, sitting up to stretch. “Hey, you take your meds today?”

Wash watches him tie his dreads up on top of his head and tug on some sweatpants and thinks, quite simply, about how he had never believed he’d be here, in a house on a hilltop with someone he loved, with someone who loved him, with everyone else who loved him in the town just across the way. He cannot always answer Tucker’s question affirmatively. There are days that he forgets to take his medication, days that he _wants_ to forget, nights that one or both of them wakes up screaming. But there is also a driveway with a basketball hoop, and a house with plenty of windows, and they’d walked all the way across town without wearing their armor, and today he can tell Tucker—

“Yes, I did.”

Once he finishes dressing, Tucker is waiting to kiss him. “Want some pizza? I think there’s a new place downtown.”

“Pizza sounds nice.”

Wash takes Tucker’s hand, and together, they step out into the sunlight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**FIN.**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are so many words buzzing around in my head right now, but the only two that i keep coming back to are _thank you._
> 
> thank you, first and foremost, to my beta, my best friend, my soul sister, my red twin, Melissa, for faithfully helping me with this story. she has gone above and beyond the call of any beta to help me with this fic- letting me talk her ear off, editting absurdly long chapters, drawing me beautiful art, and being my cheerleader when i needed it. i love you.
> 
> to all of you: thank you.
> 
> thank you for reading this story. thank you for sticking with me and these characters for TEN MONTHS. thank you for the fanart, the songs, the playlists, the comments, the asks, the liveblogging, the recs. thank you for your stories. so, so many of you have reached out to me with stories of what this fic meant to you. how it helped you want to heal. how it made you want to write again. how it made you laugh and cry and scream. you have told me how you read these chapters under the till at work, hiding under your covers, on your couch with a cup of tea, in a car surrounded by your friends, leaning against a building, on a mountaintop that you hiked to reach the wifi. in italy, in japan, in england, in new zealand. all of you, on tuesday mornings, reading together. sometimes i thought i could feel it, the energy, buzzing all around the world, and coming back to me. 
> 
> i always knew i could write. i knew i could put words together, make dialogue sound convincing, write a pretty sentence. i knew that i could turn in my rough drafts in college and get an A+. 
> 
> i had no idea that i could do _this._
> 
> i had no idea if what i wrote could make people feel. if my words and the words i gave to these characters could make people FEEL something. it's something that no writer knows until they share their work with others, until they have eyes on their words. before i began writing fanfiction for this fandom, i had never really shared my writing with anybody. i had taken some writing classes in college, and received both praise and criticism, but i never did THIS. i never wrote a book, and sent it off into the world.
> 
> i knew i could write. i did not know if i could tell a story. 
> 
> you have given me the missing piece, and i can never, ever thank you all enough for that.
> 
> this story has been like a burning thing inside of me for the the past year and a half. "oh," i remember sighing at work one day a few months back, "i haven't met my word count goals yet today. i have to write 1200 words when i go home tonight."
> 
> my coworker stared at me, alarmed. "well, you don't HAVE to."
> 
> yes. i did.
> 
> i can't explain it any other way than that. to not tell this story was unthinkable. it was like something was alive inside my chest and i had to get it out. _i couldn't not tell this story_. these characters have meant everything to me. they always will. their story has been such a huge part of my life for so long and finishing it is-
> 
> i don't know what it will feel like, yet. i haven't hit that post button. i don't know if i will feel nothing, or if i will feel everything, or if it will hit me days later. 
> 
> maybe it doesn't matter.  
> what matters is that i wrote it.  
> what matters is your eyes on it.  
> what matters is the story.  
> what matters is that we never stop telling them.
> 
> thank you, my dearest, most darling reader friends. i love you all.
> 
> xoxo, salt


End file.
